Quid si militiae iam te, puer inclite, primae clara rudimenta et castrorum dulce vocaret auspicium? quanto manarent gaudia fletu quosve darem amplexus! etiamne optanda propinqui<s> tristia? et octonos bis iam tibi circumit orbes vita, sed angustis animus robustior annis, succumbitque oneri et mentem sua non capit aetas.
What if the bright beginnings of first soldiering, boy of fame, and the fair auspices of the camp were summoning you now? With what tears my joy would flow, how close be my embrace! Are friends to pray for sadness? And your life has now rounded twice eight circuits, but your spirit is sturdier than your few years. Your age sinks under the load, unequal to the mind it bears.
final_alignments\Statius_Silvae_Book5.json