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Behind, the troops advance. No way is seen
705 T'escape, or scarce a glorious death to win. No room with slaughter'd foes to strew the plain, And bravely fall amidst a pile of flain. A captive to the place he now appears, Doubtful if death should move his hope, or fears. 710 In this distress a sudden thought inspir'd His hardy breast, by great examples fir'd; Bold Scæva's action he to mind recalls, And glory won near fam’d Dyrrachium's walls ; Where, whilst his men a doubtful fight maintain, 715 And Pompey strove the batter'd works to gain, Amidst a field of foes, that hemm'd him round, Alone the brave Centurion kept his ground.
Here the original poem breaks off abruptly, having been left unfinished by the author.