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98.1> Cato of Utica. <--------------------> ITEM. Jussa manus sacri pectus violare Catonis Haesit, et inceptum victa reliquit opus. Ille ait, infesto contra sua vulnera vultu: Estne aliquid, magnus quod Cato non potuit? ANOTHER. The hand of sacred Cato, bad to tear His breast, did start, and the made wound forbear; Then to the gash he said with angry brow: And is there ought great Cato cannot do? <--------------------> ITEM. Dextera, quid dubitas? durum est jugulare Catonem; Sed modo liber erit: jam puto non dubitas! Fas non est vivo quenquam servire Catone, Nedum ipsum vincit nunc Cato si moritur. ANOTHER. What doubt'st thou, hand? sad Cato 'tis to kill; But he'l be free: sure, hand, thou doubt'st not still! Cato alive, 'tis just all men be free: Nor conquers he himself, now if he die. <--------------------> PENTADII. Non est, fulleris, haec beata non est Quod vos creditis esse, vita non est: Fulgentes manibus videre gemmas Et testudineo jacere lecto, Aut pluma latus abdidisse molli, Aut auro bibere, aut cubare cocco; Regales dapibus gravare mensas, Et quicquid Lybico secatur arvo; Non una positum tenere cella: Sed nullos trepidum timere casus, Nec vano populi favore tangi, Et stricto nihil aestuare ferro: Hoc quisquis poterit, licebit illi Fortunam moveat loco superbus. ENGLISHED. It is not, y' are deceav'd, it is not blisse What you conceave a happy living is: To have your hands with rubies bright to glow, Then on your tortoise-bed your body throw, And sink your self in down, to drink in gold, And have your looser self in purple roll'd; With royal fare to make the tables groan, Or else with what from Lybick fields is mown, Nor in one vault hoard all your magazine, But at no cowards fate t' have frighted bin; Nor with the peoples breath to be swol'n great, Nor at a drawn stiletto basely swear. He that dares this, nothing to him's unfit, But proud o' th' top of fortunes wheel may sit. <--------------------> AD M. T. CICERONEM. CATUL EP. 50. Disertissime Romuli nepotum, Quot sunt, quotque fuere, Marce Tulli, Quotque post alios erunt in annos, Gratias tibi maximas Catullus Agit, pessimus omnium poeta: Tanto pessimus omnium poeta, Quanto tu optimus omnium patron
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