Where stands the pleader just prepared to rouse our tears,
Egnatius smiles sweetly. Near the pyre they mourn,
Where weeps a mother o’er the lost, the kind, one son;
Egnatius smiles sweetly—what the time, or place,
Or thing soe’er, smiles sweetly. Such a rare complaint
Is his, not handsome, scarce to please the town, say I.
So take a warning for the nonce my friend; town-bred
Were you, a Sabine hale, a pearly Tiburtine,
A frugal Umbrian body, Tuscan, huge of paunch,
A grim Samnian, black of hue, prodigious-tooth’d,