Como’s to Garda’s sea-imitating roar;
Of highways for her navies, east and west,
To circulate, world-through, Rome’s high behest;
Glorious service theirs, though the salt waves,
Sulking outside new ports in echoing caves,
Affect to murmur at decrees they know,
When Cæsar sets them bounds, they must allow.
Even for silver, brass and gold itself,
If Italy deigned boast of vulgar pelf,
She might just claims to be considered raise.