IV.
You'll pay! These walls—these ivy-clad arcades—
These mouldering plinths—these sad and blackened shafts—
These vague entablatures—this wreck—this ruin—
Are worth the carriage o'er the Atlantic foam,
And the tall price that Italy will ask,—
If she should cell you to Porkopolis!
V.
"No fear!"—Bourse Echoes answer me—"no fear!"
Italy is hard up, her bare Exchequer