Her glittering car the souls of all mankind;
Nor less the lowly than the noble feels
The onward roll of those victorious wheels.
Come, tell me, Tillius, have you cause to thank
The stars that gave you power, restored you rank?
Ill-will, scarce audible in low estate,
Gives tongue, and opens loudly, now you're great.
Poor fools! they take the stripe, draw on the shoe,
And hear folks asking, "Who's that fellow? who?"
Just as a man with Barrus's disease,
His one sole care a lady's eye to please,
Whene'er he walks abroad, sets on the fair
To con him over, leg, face, teeth, and hair;
So he that undertakes to hold in charge
Town, country, temples, all the realm at large,
Gives all the world a title to enquire
The antecedents of his dam or sire.
"What? you to twist men's necks or scourge them, you,
The son of Syrus, Dama, none knows who?"
"Aye, but I sit before my colleague; he
Ranks with my worthy father, not with me."
And think you, on the strength of this, to rise
A Paullus or Messala in our eyes?
Talk of your colleague! he's a man of parts:
Suppose three funerals jostle with ten carts
All in the forum, still you'll hear his voice
Through horn and clarion: that commends our
choice.

Now on myself, the freedman's son, I touch,