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Dundee, retreating before the forces of the Convention, is represented as musing over his camp-fire on the ingratitude of the Prince whose life he had once saved. "Tu vero, Arctoæ gentis prædo improbe, tanti Fons et origo mali, Nassovi, ingrate virorum, Immeritum quid me, nunc Cæsaris arma secutum, Prosequeris toties, et iniquo Marte fatiges?
Et siquid doliturus eris, sine testibus illis! Cum venient, siccis oscula falle genis: Sat tibi sint noctes quas de me, Paule, fatiges, Somniaque in faciem reddita saepe meam. In these lines, hardly to be read without tears, Propertius for once rises into that clear air in which art passes beyond the reach of criticism.
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