Blessed Maecenas, when will I, happy, by the grace of Jove, drink vintage Caecuban at the victory banquet with you, in your great house with victorious Caesar, the lyre playing a Dorian march with barbarian flutes mixed in? Just as we recently celebrated, when the retreating Neptunian leader, threatening chains on the city which he dragged from his friends-- perfidious slaves-- flew through the straits, his ships in flames.
A Roman—God! (future generations will deny it)—made over to…
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