Of Scythian Pontus, held the fates of Rome

Still in the balances. Where is the land

That hath not seen my trophies? Icy waves

Of northern Phasis, hot Egyptian shores,

And where Syene 'neath its noontide sun

Knows shade on neither hand (31): all these have learned

To fear Pompeius: and far Baetis' (32) stream,

Last of all floods to join the refluent sea.

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