I War Not With The Dead.

By Jove The Stranger And The Poor Are Sent, And What To Those We Give, To Jove Is Lent.

It Is Entirely Seemly For A Young Man Killed In Battle To Lie Mangled By The Bronze Spear. In His Death All Things Appear Fair.

Sinks My Sad Soul With Sorrow To The Grave.

Do Thou Restrain The Haughty Spirit In Thy Breast, For Better Far Is Gentle Courtesy.

But He Whose Inborn Worth His Acts Commend, Of Gentle Soul, To Human Race A Friend.