Sick of this, I turned and looking out the arches in the street,
I beheld a mighty multitude, a crowd with hurrying feet;
Nobles with their flowing togas, simple artisans bedight
In their holyday attire and badges, maids with eyes of light,
Waving hands to lovers distant, and the little children clung
To their mother’s gowns, and nurses held aloft their infants young,
And afar and pouring through the city gates a long array,
And in front, in his triumphal car, the hero of the day;
And his coursers champed their frosted bits and pranced, but all in vain,
Braced he stood, with streaming robe, and checked them with a tightened rein;