Ae. Lepidus. a. U. C. 711

Ten years the last triumvirs held their rule; But shallow Lepidus, ambition's fool, Though small the power the pageant e'er possess'd, The mightier two of that small power divest. By sufferance alone with them he reign'd; The tool they wanted, but the man disdain'd. Determin'd to deserve the people's hate, Each felt it less, while three sustain'd the weight. On his dull head the load of wrongs they heap, The little merit to themselves they keep; Shelt'ring their crimes behind his ready name, They shar'd the spoil, and he endur'd the blame: But when their height beyond his reach was grown, Then to contempt and scorn they hurl'd him down. So with the building does the scaffold rise, Which once completed, in the dust it lies: So the loose garb that bears the winter sky, In kindlier warmth is cast neglected by. Private and poor they left him, to lament The irksome memory of a life ill spent; Whence no past act new comfort can afford, But keen reflection turns a bosom'd sword. Sad state! and such the worthless only feel; In their own breasts anticipated hell: And when cold eve in dusky pall draws near, The shades, then lengthen'd, of their crimes appear; Forms, which the day-time's fury could control, Embodying conscience wakes, to haunt the soul; Each casual voice croaks, like the raven hoarse, THE PRESENT WRETCHED, AND THE FUTURE WORSE: Reproaches in the stagnant calm they hear, And in each bush a vengeful minister. One hour his statue in Rome's fanes we see, The next proclaims him Rome's worst enemy; And in these pois'd discordant acts appear Distracted counsels, and the senate's fear. The threats by furious Antony sent forth, Gave e'en to Lepidus a moment's worth. As chance had rais'd him to the triple throne, His fall involv'd no ruin but his own. Great deity of fools! to thee should rise More frequent fumes from grateful sacrifice, Would man, vain man, thy dispensations see, Nor give to merit what is due to thee. Obsequious ever to great Caesar's will, The legions which he led, obey'd him still; And with the confidence of strength elate, His pride provok'd, and they allow'd his fate. In the first conflicts of the doubtful field, His wavering hand awhile the balance held; So from conjuncture, not from worth or sense, Arose his transitory consequence. Sure to forsake the friends he chose at first, With all he tamper'd, but espous'd the worst; False to the senate, of their foes afraid, He flatter'd both alike, and both betray'd: Unfit for power, this wonder fill'd the throng, Not how he lost it, but preserv'd so long. The weak man oft to fortune greatness owes, But sense alone can keep what chance bestows. Who without wisdom fortune would command, Writes but on water, or erects on sand.