Indeed, sir, infandum, regina, jubes renovare dolorem."
"Thy story, Partridge," answered Jones, "is almost as ill applied as
thy Latin. Nothing can be more likely to happen than death to men
who go into battle. Perhaps we shall both fall in it-and what then?"
"What then?" replied Partridge; "why then there is an end of us, is
there not? when I am gone, all is over with me. What matters the cause
to me, or who gets the victory, if I am killed? I shall never enjoy
any advantage from it. What are all the ringing of bells, and
bonfires, to one that is six foot under ground? there will be an end
of poor Partridge." "And an end of poor Partridge," cries Jones,
"there must be, one time or other. If you love Latin, I will repeat
you some fine lines out of Horace, which would inspire courage into
a coward.
'Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori:
Mors et fugacem persequitur virum,
Nec parcit imbellis juventae
Poplitibus, timidoque tergo.'"
"I wish you would construe them," cries Partridge; "for Horace is
a hard author, and I cannot understand as you repeat them."
"I will repeat you a bad imitation, or rather paraphrase, of my
own," said Jones; "for I am but an indifferent poet:
Who would not die in his dear country's cause?
Since, if base fear his dastard step withdraws,
From death he cannot fly:- One common grave
Receives, at last, the coward and the brave."
"That's very certain," cries Partridge.
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