This flys by land, and that the sea prefers,
And thinks his native soil less safe appears,
The souldier trusts the fortune of the wars.
Prest by their fate, thus as they fear they run.
'Midst these disorders, through th' abandon'd town:
A moving sight, wild tumults here and there,
Follow the blind impulses of their fear.
Vanquisht by rumour all, prepar'd for flight,
Their much lamented habitations quit:
Trembling, this takes his children in his arms,
And that protects his guardian gods from harm.
Scar'd from their homes, unwillingly they go,
And in their wishes stab the absent foe.
Some bear their wives, amidst ten thousand fears,
In sad imbrace; and some their aged sires:
The tender youth, unus'd to burdens, bear
Only that with 'em for which most they fear:
Some less discreet, strive to bear all away,
And only for the foe prepare the prey.
So in a storm when no sea-arts avail
To guide the ship with any certain sail;
Some bind the shatter'd mast, with thoughts secure,
Others are swimming t'ward the peaceful shore;
While with full sails kind fortune these implore.
But why do we of such small fears complain,
With both the consuls greater Pompey ran,
That Asia aw'd, in dire Hydaspes grown
The only rock, its pyrates split upon;
Whose third triumph o're earth made Jove afraid,
Proud with success he'd next his Heaven invade:
To whom the ocean yielding honours gave,
And rougher Bosphorus humbly still'd his wave.
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