First of these Was Labienus: (17) "Chance," he said, "to us The voice and counsel of this mighty god Has offered as we march; from such a guide To know the issues of the war, and learn To track the Syrtes.

For to whom on earth If not to blameless Cato, shall the gods Entrust their secrets?
Faithful thou at least, Their follower through all thy life hast been; Now hast thou liberty to speak with Jove.
Ask impious Caesar's fates, and learn the laws That wait our country in the future days: Whether the people shall be free to use Their rights and customs, or the civil war For us is wasted.

To thy sacred breast, Lover of virtue, take the voice divine; Demand what virtue is and guide thy steps By heaven's high counsellor." But Cato, full Of godlike thoughts borne in his quiet breast, This answer uttered, worthy of the shrines: "What, Labienus, dost thou bid me ask?
Whether in arms and freedom I should wish To perish, rather than endure a king?
Is longest life worth aught?
And doth its term Make difference?
Can violence to the good Do injury?
Do Fortune's threats avail Outweighed by virtue?
Doth it not suffice To aim at deeds of bravery?
Can fame Grow by achievement?
Nay! No Hammen's voice Shall teach us this more surely than we know.
Bound are we to the gods; no voice we need; They live in all our acts, although the shrine Be silent: at our birth and once for all What may be known the author of our being Revealed; nor Chose these thirsty sands to chaunt To few his truth, whelmed in the dusty waste.
God has his dwelling in all things that be, In earth and air and sea and starry vault, In virtuous deeds; in all that thou can'st see, In all thy thoughts contained.

Why further, then, Seek we our deities?
Let those who doubt And halting, tremble for their coming fates, Go ask the oracles.

No mystic words, Make sure my heart, but surely-coming Death.
Coward alike and brave, we all must die.
Thus hath Jove spoken: seek to know no more." Thus Cato spake, and faithful to his creed He parted from the temple of the god And left the oracle of Hammon dumb.
Bearing his javelin, as one of them Before the troops he marched: no panting slave With bending neck, no litter bore his form.
He bade them not, but showed them how to toil.
Spare in his sleep, the last to sip the spring When at some rivulet to quench their thirst The eager ranks pressed onward, he alone Until the humblest follower might drink Stood motionless.