The anxious throng look’d down, and, sad in thought, All wish’d they had not found the sign they sought. In haste, with laurel wreaths his head they bind: Such honour to such virtue was assign’d. Then thus the senate: “Hear, oh Cippus, hear: So godlike is thy tutelary care, That since in Rome thyself forbids thy stay, For thy abode those acres we convey The ploughshare can surround, the labour of a day. In deathless records thou shalt stand enroll’d; And Rome’s rich posts shall shine with horns of gold.”