Thomas
Stanley Tracey, Scholar, Poet and Editor
Flan is an unusual name and as such his father was
probably Flan (Flanagan) Tracy, a gauger [revenue officer] of Athlone
East Walk, Westmeath, who died 17 December 1825. Also there is also the follow
record:
Flan Tracy, Siz. (Mr. O’Connor), June 13, 1797, aged 22; R.C., s. of
Flan, Agricola; b. Co. Roscommon. Sch. 1800. B.A.
Vern. 1801.
Scholar of Trinity
College...1800 Flan Tracy
In 1871, in a letter to ‘Notes and Queries’, he states that he received
a poem/bagatelle “having been
extemporised [performed] by my father, a naval brother Medico and friend of the
Doctor's”. There appears to be
only one naval surgeon at that time, Henry Tracey, who started his service in
1831 and who succumbed to dysentery in September 1840, in China.
There are the following
references:
Thomas Tracey, Scholar of
Trinity College Dublin, letter to Rev P Bliss 1841 (British Library 34,574 F
322)
James Tracy, letter to Rev P
Bliss 1829 (British Library 34,570 F 246)
In 1850 and 1860’s he was
engaged in the editorial department and wrote poetry for the “Limerick century
Reporter” newspaper.
6 April 1855 Cork Examiner
... Stanley Tracy, A.D., Ex-scholar, T.C.D.,
uniformly a First Honor Man, (formerly Sizsr) recommended by Noblemen, Dignitaries, &c., and
others of the Highest Literary ...
31 December 1855 Cork Examiner
...Thomas Stanley Tracey, Ex-Scholar, formerly Sizar, A.M., and uniformly First Honor
man of T.C.D., whose Pupils have been successful Candidates for University and Military ...
In 1866 Maurice Lenihan published ‘Limerick, its history and antiquities’.
“I have enjoyed the constant, efficient, and friendly
aid of Thomas Stanley Tracey,
Esq., A.B., ex-Schol.
T.C.D., who was conveniently near me.”
Finegan states that: “It is sometimes said that a great portion of Lenihan's
History of Limerick is that of
another writer, and the name of Thomas Stanley Tracey is mentioned as being
that of the real author. This objection against Lenihan's
authorship need not be taken seriously. There is no mystery about the name of
Thomas Tracey. He graduated a B.A. of Trinity College in 1841 and became a
journalist. For many years he occupied the post of sub-editor to the Limerick Reporter. Lenihan quite openly admits his obligations to Tracey. In
the Preface he states: ‘In translation, research,
revision and, generally, literary assistance I have enjoyed the constant,
efficient and friendly aid of Thomas S. Tracey, B.A., who was conveniently near
me.’ Two explanations can be assigned for the propagation of this legend of
dual authorship. In the first place, the fact that Tracey was a university
graduate impressed people at a time when few Catholics possessed a university
degree. To this it may be answered that Lenihan,
though prevented from receiving the benefit of a university training because of
his faith, had probably had quite asgood an education
as Tracey. There is the added consideration that, if Tracev
wrote a considerable part of the book, it is matter for wonder that he did not
protest when his name did not appear on the title-page as that of co-author.
In 28 July 1869 (NG) at the
Limerick Petty Sessions, in a report from the Nenagh
Guardian “...we learn from the Munster News, Mr. Maurice Lenihan,
proprietor of the Limerick Reporter, was charged by Mr. Thomas J. Cassidy,
formerly a Reporter on the that paper, but now a Limerick correspondent of the
Cork Herald, with "using violent, offensive and abusive language to him in
a public street, in Limerick, calculated to induce him to commit a breach of
the peace", and Mr. Tracey, Editor of the same paper, was charged with
inciting the principal aggressor to the conduct stated....the majority of them
were for dismissing the case.”
Thomas Stanley Tracey, Henry Street, Inhabitant
Householder, house and small garden, Dock Ward
Obituary: Thomas Stanley
Tracey, 35 Henry Street 05/09/1889 death notice, late sub editor of the
Limerick Reporter and Tipperary Vindicator
Tracey - At 35 Henry street, aged 77 years, Thomas Stanley Tracey, Esq.,
A.B., ex-Sch. T.C.D., who was for the period of thirty-one years was the
learned, faithful, and truely honourable Sub-Editor
of The Limerick Reporter and Tipperary Vindicator; a gentleman of rare
abilities and scholarly acquirements, truely esteemed
by the proprietor and editor of that journal, and all who knew him. R.I.P.
American papers please copy.
The following are listed in the Mount St. Lawrence Cemetery Register:
Thomas S. Tracey, 78, 35 Henry St., 5 sep 1889,
ref 14264 83 DA
Margaret Tracey, 44, Henry St, 23rd Feb 1873, ref 4710 48 Q
Ref:
Francis Finegan:
Maurice Lenihan History of Limerick. Part Two.Reprinted from Studies, Vol.
XXXV. No. 143, September 1947. http://www.limerick.ie/media/Media,3969,en.pdf
Kemmy, Jim ed (1997) The Limerick Compendium.
Gill & Macmillan.
Lenihan,
Maurice (1866) Limerick, its history
and antiquities, Dublin.
Souvenir of modern minstrelsy:
a collection of original and select poetry by Living Writers. Third Series. Trubner & Co.,
London 1862
Thomas Stanley Tracy “Provincial Characteristics”.
Notes and Queries 1871 s4-VII: 319; doi:10.1093/nq/s4-VII.172.319-a
Thomas Stanley Tracey A.B. Sch.
T.C.D.
The Dublin university magazine (1876) p.37
Lenihan, Maurice (1866) Limerick, its history and antiquities,
Dublin.
* Thomas Tracey…graduated a B.A. of Trinity College in
1841 and became a journalist. For many years he occupied the post of sub-editor
to the Limerick Reporter.
Francis Finegan:
Maurice Lenihan History of Limerick. Part Two.Reprinted from Studies, Vol.
XXXV. No. 143, September 1947
June 3, 1834 (BL) Trinity College...successful candidates...Thomas Tracey...
February 24, 1835 (BL) Trinity College
Junior Freshmen. Honours in Classics. First rank...Thomas Tracey...
13 May 1835 (FJ) Trinity College:
Honours in Classics - First rank...Thomas Tracy.
May 19, 1835 (FJ) Trinty College Dublin Junior
Freshman...Honours in Classics, First Rank...Thomas Tracy...
February 19, 1836 (BL) Trinity College. Senior Freshmen. Honors in Classics. First rank...Thomas
Tracey...
12 June 1838 (FJ)
Examination for Fellowships. Yesterday (being Trinity Monday) the following
gentlemen were announced the successful candidates...as Scholars...Tracy...
June 15, 1838 (FJ) Trinty College...successful candidates for the
Scholarships...Tracy (Thos).
In 1871, he signed a letter
with ‘Thomas Stanley Tracey A.B. Ex-Scholar Trin. Coll., Dublin.’
POEMS
“Sarsfield’s
Defence of Limerick”
in Lenihan, Maurice (1866) Limerick, its history and antiquities,
Dublin.
"The Siege of Clampbetts Bow"
in
Jim Kemmy's Limerick Compendium. Also on Larry de Cléir's debut solo
album The
Dog that heard the Bell.
“A Death Study”
“The Drowned”
“Folk-Lore. The Fairy-Stricken”
“The Changling’s
Recollections”
“The Night Watch”
“The Romance-Reader”
“The Better Land”
“Fountain of Youth”
“The Crusader’s Death”
in Souvenir of modern minstrelsy: a collection of
original and select poetry by Living Writers. Third Series.
Trubner & Co., London 1862
TRANSLATIONS
“Provincial
Characteristics”. “Characteres Provinciarum.”
in Notes
and Queries 1871 s4-VII: 319; doi:10.1093/nq/s4-VII.172.319-a
|
Sarsfield’s Defence of Limerick by Thomas Stanley Tracey
A.B. Sch. T.C.D. (Lenihan) |
|
|
There’s a deathless tree on
the ancient lines here the old Black Battery
stood; With leaves still bright as
the flame of the fight That dyed them once in
blood. The heroes are dead, but
the tree still lives; And still, as the
night-wind grieves, Immortal memories wake
again, That slept beneath its
leaves. And warriors’ ghosts from
the battered walls Cry forth in Fancy’s ear- For ever curs’d be these foreign
dogs, What demon brought them
here? But we drove them out in
olden times, And we’ll drive them out
again; Listen to how your father’s
fought When Sarsfield
led our men. The blood rushed back to
many a heart On that eventful day; When Sarsfield
from the hill returned,- The lion from his prey; Little the slumbering foe
had dreamed The Shannon’s fords were
passed,- But bloodhounds staunch
were Sarsfield’s dogs, And dragged them down at
last. Quick as the lightening
flash revels The ravage of the storm, His eye had scanned the
patriot band, And seen their ranks
reform;- “Now pay them back, my
boys,” he cried, “In honest Irish coin, The long-due debt that Ireland
owes These braggarts of the
Boyne! |
“Sword, shot, and shell are
best to tell The wrongs of injured men- No craven King, no traitor
friends, Shall spoil our sport
again;- Up with your strong and
bloody hands, O’Brien and O’Neill, And dig the graves of these
foreign slaves With a shower of Irish
hail.” A thousand iron mouths of
death Their fierce replies
combined,- And the stormers
reeled from the fiery breach Like chaff before the wind; To the trenches driven,
with ranks all riven, In the sweep of that deadly
shower,- Sarsfield hath wished on a foreign field, He had died in that
glorious hour. The green flag streamed,
the death-shower teemed,- The fatal bridge was
passed; There was hardly one in
that fierce sortie But had crossed it for the
last: Red ran the flood with
women’s blood, Who fought with Limerick’s
sons, Their glorious names shall
never die, While ever that river runs. Three times the furious foe
came on,- But met and beaten still, Their souls went down to
their last parade, With their friends of
Keeper Hill, The sun set on two bleeding
hosts, And red with a soldier’s
shame, King William with two
thousand ghosts, Left Limerick to its fame! |
|
The
Siege of Clampbetts Bow by Thomas Tracey, 1856 |
|
|
1. Oh roll the drum and
thunder,
You may talk of all the
glories, |
3. 4. Now we're told |
The Siege of Clampbetts Bow by Jim Kenny [online] [background article]
Souvenir of modern minstrelsy: a collection of
original and select poetry by Living Writers. Third Series.
Trubner & Co., London 1862
Thomas Stanley Tracey.
The author of the following original compositions is a
graduate Ex-Scholar of Trinity College, Dublin, and was uniformly a first
honour man of the same University. Mr. Tracey has for some years past been engaged
in the editorial department of the "Limerick Reporter" newspaper.
A DEATH
STUDY.
Oh that when Death had set its seal
Upon an earthly sufferer's brow,
It left some traces to reveal
His state of being now!
Not for the philosophic fool
To supplement his creedless
school,
But to convince the sons of
pride
That God is still a friend,
when there is none beside.
A son of Greece, whose
country nursed
Unnumbered sophists, sages
seven,
Said God created man, at first,
To move the mirth of Heaven;
But more in man's short life appears,
Could angels weep, to move their tears:
Sorrows that weigh the senses down,
And seem to mark the loss of a once hoped-for crown.
The misery of this wasted
mien
Is that of one who died forlorn—
A sufferer on a chequered
scene,
With more of grief than scorn.
Those oft-repeated lines of
care
Seem furrowed by an iron share :
Let me approach with bated
breath
To spell the lore of life and mystery of death.
He
seems not one that ever dreamed
Where shades of lasting
horror lie,—
No sensual Sadducee who deemed
The God-like soul can die,—
Nor Stoic cold, whose deadening lore
Freezes the human feelings o'er,
Binding the soul in fatal chain
Whose primal links on earth
the dreamers sought in vain.
One ray alone akin to mirth
Remains of all the laughing
train,—
If hope of Heaven or scorn of earth ?
We ask, and ask in vain.
Perhaps the dead was doomed to keep
Sad vigils, ere his churchyard sleep,
And turned him to death's welcome rest,
Like a poor sullen child back to his mother's breast.
Nor is that smile a cynic's
sneer,
Whose soul repelled his
fellow-men,—
For softer traits are blended here
That challenge love again.
Perhaps he died unwept, unweeping,
Casting his soul on Heaven's keeping,
And knowing Death the gate of Life,
Received the conqueror's crown victorious in the strife !
THE
DROWNED.
AN INCIDENT OF LOUGH REE.
The mist is on the haunted lake, the sun is in the west,
His glory smiles like a dying
saint as he gently sinks to rest—
But
there's a speck on heaven's verge that tells of coming winds,
Like the bodings of
approaching ill in sad and lonely minds.
Who loiters on the lone Lough
Ree?—the shades of night are nigh—
A soldier and his only child,
and one that saw them die.
Death has no terrors for the brave whose ties are not of earth,
But a father's heart is
yielding stuff tho' a soldier from his birth.
That soldier's voice had
cheered his men on the bloodiest fields of Spain,
When Europe from the Eagle's
grasp had struggled forth in vain,
Till the awful calm of
British might to the storm of battle grew,
And the War-god and his
lion-guard went down at Waterloo.
0 ! golden-haired and blue-eyed
child, too thoughtful for thy years,
The roses from thy cheek are fled, thy eyes are dim with tears—
Why seem those eyes like
angel-souls that weep for sins of men,
And having stayed too long
from God would fain go back again ?
His face was like the sunny
lake in summer's calmest hours,
As he wove a strange
mysterious wreath of fancy's funeral flowers,
Speaking of death and the
spirit-land where the soul of his mother dwelt—
Oh! ever
doomed are the early wise who have thus untimely felt.
But tho'
the spark of childish minds was a living fire in him,
The same had been his father's
love, altho' that light were dim :
He challenged the waves like
a soldier's son, and mocked the threatening wind—
But a lightning flash has
struck the boy—the soldier's son is blind !
Ah ! thro' their light boat's
shivered mast the fire of heaven has gone,
The herald of the dreadful
peal that now comes thundering on !—
They cannot sail, they cannot
row; the waters o'er them sweep—
Their boat is cradled in the
surf—the doomed are in the deep.
" Hold fast, hold fast!" the father cried, " and
bear a soldier's heart,
In life we'll both together
live—or in death we'll never part."
And his child he caught, and
the wave he fought with the giant arm of love,
But the father's strength has
failed at length, and another soul's above :
One shriek he gave of wild
despair, and yielded to the deep—
His son was gone, his labour
done, he slept the lasting sleep!
FOLK-LORE,
THE FAIRY-STRICKEN.
0 Time, thou robber of our joys,
Where are our young friends
gone—
The guileless world of girls
and boys
That faded one by one ?
A fairy band rejoices—
That dances on their graves;—
I hear their tiny voices,
Where the
long grass waves.
And the music of these fairy lays
Is lovely, sweet and wild,
Like a Celtic song of other
days,
That lullabies a child;
And human joy and sorrow,
And fancied ills and wrongs,
Are the favourite themes they borrow
For the
subjects of their songs.
"O the fairies of these
Danish raths
Will never go away ;
You see us in our ancient paths,
In summer dreams by day—
When the lady lily's bosom
Hath a lover of its own,
And the gorse's golden blossom
Is the
elfin monarch's throne.
"They are not dead—these
youthful friends-
We took them all away,
To meet the fallen angels' ends,
'Till the light of Judgment
Day;
For every changeling's duty
A fallen one's forgiven,—
For every stolen beauty,
A fairy enters heaven.
"O, weep not then when
youth departs
That long hath pined away;—
Leaving a home of breaking hearts
For their little gods of
clay:
They're changed in expiation
Of childhood's lesser sins,
And whoever joins our nation
Eternal glory wins."
THE
CHANGELING'S RECOLLECTIONS.
My life-lamp pales: but memory's parting beam
Flashes full brightly with
its dying glare
O'er the long past, when, in
a childish dream,
I saw that fairy with the
golden hair,
Whose rainbow promises, now
lost in air,
My heaven of hope so long and
brightly bound ;
Oh, that a form so soft and
angel-fair
Should mask a soul so
witch-like and profound;
All jubilant 'midst ruin and
despair—
My spirit faints—my eyes, in
sorrow drown'd,
Wane like the moon, and my
enchanted heart
Heaves with the pressure of
unearthly care,
And yet she dooms me in her
fairy song,
As if not she, but I, had
done the wrong.
THE NIGHT
WATCH.
A REMINISCENCE OF WAR.
The star-bannered host had enshrouded its glory,
And silence was reigning around and above,
When a watcher repeated his
sorrowful story,
A vision of war, in the vigils of love;—
The
moon like a beautiful spirit arose
From its vapoury
sepulchre pale and serene,—
And memory stole upon
nature's repose
Like summer's sweet breath from the blossoming bean.
"0 !
friend of my childhood, those halcyon days,"
Was friendship's lament in
its sorrowful hour—
"When the spirit at
large o'er the wilderness strays,
Extracting a sweet from each
transient flower :
My heart is still with thee! its early devotion
No distance can sever, no
time can efface;
For in fancy I bound o'er the
desert of ocean
And fold thee once more in a
parting embrace.
"Young travellers, we recked not the changes of weather—
No damp o'er the fire of our
spirits could steal—
But we'd rambled too long and
too kindly together
To part without feeling as
brothers might feel:—
And now thou art dead, but
uninjured by time—
Thy incense of life not
ingloriously shed—
Like the idols we worshipped
in youth's happy prime,
When books were our
world—when we lived with the dead.
"Unschooled in the lore
of the valley of tears,
What pictures of life and
adventure we drew,
While the rainbow of genius,
the brightener of years,
Its beautiful hues o'er reality threw!
Alas ! what a world of
mourners shall weep
That soldier's romance that
hath lured thee so far—
When the Demon of Discord
awakens from sleep,
And saddens
the earth with the horrors of war.
"Posterity's curse and a
desolate grave,
And laurels that wither in history's breath,
To the tyrants that reign by
the blood of the brave ;
Their glory shall wane to the darkness of death.
But
thou shalt repose with the noble of heart,
And the kind and the true in
the peace of the blest;
While thy presence will
gladden, wherever thou art,
The visions
of those that have loved thee the best.
"Farewell, my beloved,
'tis the hour for repose
For hearts that are free from
the presure of care—
O'er the ramparts afar as the
sentinel goes
His night-call resounds on
the stillness of air.
A presage of promise that
night-call shall be
For thee who hast fought for
a deathless reward—
'All's well' with the
bondsmen of nature set free,—
'All's
well' with the dead that have died in the Lord!"
THE
ROMANCE-READER.
We laugh at poetry, yet still we cherish
Some dreamy superstition of
our own—
Some fond delusion which we
love alone :
We would not have our childish pleasures perish,
Or burn the wild romances of
our youth,
For all the
lectures of pretentious truth.
But it is impious to abuse our powers,
For loftier studies, holier
objects given,
On worthless books: a serious life is ours—
The stern
probation state for hell or heaven.
And sinful fictions are funereal flowers,
Speaking of death through
all their ghastly beauty;
Exaggerated thought's unrest
devours
The dreamy,
changeful derelicts of duty.
I knew a youth whom oft I
chanced to see
Conning the mysteries of a
Gothic rhyme,
Or wild love-legend of the
olden time;
And much I feared his life
would hapless be,
Deeming the young idealist
would prove
Another
victim of romance and love.
Time passed,—I met him in the
world abroad,
A lone and restless wanderer dreaming still;
Yet pride had not seduced his
heart from God,
Nor world-idolatry usurped his will—
Though drifting carelessly 'twixt good and ill—
A reckless soldier of the
hope forlorn
In life's
fierce battle,—still averse to strife,
But wild in creed, and politics, and life.
To reconstruct society anew,
Humbling the proud ones, was
his favourite craze,
Like the mad giants of the ancient days ;
Yet he was frank and earnest,
bold and true,
And this is one of his rhapsodic lays:—
" Adam, our sire, is represented well
In the fallen natures of this sinful world,
Where Selfishness its banners has unfurled,
And Ignorance and Spurious
Virtue dwell.
If kindest hearts and noblest
minds would tell
Their world experience, it would make us weep
To see in what death-vaults their memories sleep,
Hoping for aye of that
much-longed-for waking,
The only
cure of broken hearts and breaking."
THE BETTER
LAND.
[Suggested on hearing that
song sung, on visiting the infant school of the Limerick Union, of which
O'Connor, the Irish Harper, is at present a pauper inmate.]
The flowers are dead on Summer's
grave—
Like Beauty turned to clay;
And the sere trees sigh, as the branches wave,
With their skeleton leaves that dance and rave
At the
close of the autumn day.
Like a glimpse of heaven is
yonder wild
By the golden sunset spann'd ;—
And the deep dark clouds have a radiance mild,
Like the bright young eyes of that pauper child,
That sings of the Better
Land.
The Better Land!—ah ! many a
time,
That simple strain has
brought
(Like the heavenward call of a Sabbath chime,
That summons our hearts from this sunless clime)
The grace of a holy thought.
For it visits the pauper proud of old
With dreams of lowly love,
And giveth the spendthrift
lands and gold,
And the saintly poor a firmer hold
Whose hopes were ever above.
And angel forms seem whispering oft
In that pauper harper's ear—
As his sightless eyes are turned aloft
And their lids are dimmed with a moisture soft,
For he
hopes that death is near.
Yet his patriot love is still as deep
As when, once in the happy
past,
He strove a minstrel's fame to keep—
Nor deem'd O'Connor's race
could sleep
In a pauper's bed at last!
But the fierce old songs of his fiery youth,
That told of his country's
wrongs,
And her chieftain's might and her daughters' truth,
Are hushed by Faith's remorseful ruth,
To the tone of a Christian's songs :
And they all look out with a Christian's ken
From Hope's consoling breast,
To the Better Land of landless men,
Where the wicked will never trouble again,
And the weary shall be at
rest.
THE
FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH.
Fountain
of Youth ! where hopes and fears,
In fancy's mystic forms
united,
Reveal the fate of coming
years,—
Delusions vain, affections
blighted,—
How fondly still our hearts
recall
The phantom forms that
childhood cherished,
Weaving the Future's funeral
pall
With threads of gold that
long have perished !
Thou dreamer, with the poet's
eyes,
Know'st thou the fate of poets' feelings ?
Thy dreams shall turn to
waking lies,
And make thee weep the
world's revealings.
The sinner's fate is dreaming
still—
Delirious in life's fitful
fevers:
When Time the stern hath worked his will,
Present and past will prove
deceivers.
We antedate our smiles and
tears,
The future claims our joy or
sadness—
The hopes and fears of
worldly years,
What are they still but
summer madness ?
The good, the great, the
wise, the free,
See darkly—yet, 'midst grief
and blindness,
Fountain of Youth, still turn
to thee
For faith
in God and human kindness.
THE
CRUSADER'S DEATH.
The sunset is glorious on Lago
Maggiore;—
Crimson and gold are the hues of the skies,
But brighter the lustre, more
lasting the glory,
That kindles in heaven when the Paladin dies.
The
angels look forth from their heavenly portals
To welcome the wanderer back
to his home,
And music too grand for the
senses of mortals
Proclaims
the return of the Pilgrim of Rome.
No tear is required o'er the
warrior's ashes,
Whose spirit has passed to
the regions of light;
The wind as it murmurs, the
wave as it dashes,
Will serve
as a dirge for the champion of Right.
No mourning shall trouble-the
rest of the sleeper,
Yet tears are not wanting
from those he loved best;—
For love-lit in sorrow the
eyes of the weeper
Are watching like stars in
the beantiful West.
While a prayer for the
Pilgrim his mother is breathing
To guard him from death in
the perilous strife,
A crown of immortelles the
stranger is wreathing
To place on his grave as the
symbol of life.
Yet memory lingers, and
watches, and listens,
And loves him in heaven as it
loved him on earth;
O ! life's but the dream of a
higher existence,—
Pilgrim, thy death was a
happier birth !
1871 Notes and Queries “...the pungent bagatelle in question having been
extemporised by my father, a naval brother Medico and friend of the Doctor's,
who, many years ago, gave me the original, from which 1 made the accompanying
Latin translation, such as it is.”
|
"PROVINCIAL CHARACTERISTICS.” "A Connaught man Gets all that he can, His impudence never has missed all; He'll seldom flatter, But bully and batter, And his talk's of his kin and his pistol. "A Munster man Is civil by plan, Again and again he'll entreat you; Though you ten times refuse, He his object pursues, Which is, nine out of ten times, to cheat you. "An Ulster man Ever means to trepan, He watches your eye and opinion; He'll ne'er disagree, Till his interest it be, And insolence marks his dominion. "A Leinster man Is with all cup and can; He calls t'other provinces knaves; Yet each of them see, When he starts with the three. That his distance he frequently saves." |
"CHARACTERES PROVINCIARUM.” "Connaciae natus
quae possit cuncta lucratur; Nee semper, audax,
fallitur omne petens; Rarus
adulator, bncchans plerumque
ferocit; Armaque
magniloqnens prosapiamque
crepat. "Mononia; natus
civilis compositoque Urbanus
rogitat, saepe subinde rogat; Si decies negitas,
quod vult prosequithr ardens ; Ex decies novies fallere quemqne parat. "Ultoniae natus
deceptor semper ocellis Inbiat
et menti, callidus advigilans ; Ni sua res agitur
nunquam dissentit amico ; Spiritus
insultans imperiumque notat. "Lageniae natus
calices et pocnla partit, Atque alios nequam furciferosque vocat; Ast ubi contendit triplex provincia cursu,— Quaeque sibi videat,—occupat
ilia locum." |
Last update: 26
April 2013