vexillum sublime crucis, quod in agmine primo dux bona praetulerat, defixa cuspide sistit, instauratque levem dictis mordacibus alam exstimulans animos nunc probris, nunc precemixta: quis furor insanas agitat caligine mentes? quo ruitis? cui colla datis? quae vincula tandem, pro pudor, armigeris amor est perferre lacertis, lilia luteolis interlucentia sertis et ferrugineo vernantes flore coronas? his placet adsuetas bello iam tradere palmas nexibus, his rigidas nodis innectier ulnas, ut mitra caesariem cohibens aurata virilem conbibat infusum croceo religamine nardum, post inscripta oleo frontis signacula, per quae unguentum regale datum est et chrisma perenne, ut tener incessus vestigia syrmate verrat sericaque infractis fluitent ut pallia membris, post inmortalem tunicam quam pollice docto texuit alma Fides, dans inpenetrabile tegmen pectoribus lotis, dederat quibus ipsa renasci, inde ad nocturnas epulas, ubi cantharus ingens despuit effusi spumantia damna Falerni in mensam cyathis stillantibus, uda ubi multo fulcra mero veterique toreumata rore rigantur? .
Like the good leader she is, she had carried the standard of the cross at the head of her troops, and now she plants the spike in the ground and sets it up, and with biting words restores her unsteady regiment, mingling appeals with her reproaches to awake their courage: What blinding madness is vexing your disordered minds? To what fate are you rushing? To whom are you bowing the neck? What bonds are these (for shame!) you long to bear on arms that were meant for weapons, these yellow garlands interspersed with bright lilies, these wreaths blooming with red-hued flowers? Is it to chains like these you will give up hands trained to war, with these bind your stout arms, to have your manly hair confined by a gilded turban with its yellow band to soak up the spikenard you pour on, and this after you have had inscribed with oil on your brows the signs whereby was given to you the kings anointing, his everlasting unction? To walk softly with a train sweeping the path you have trod? To wear flowing robes of silk on your enfeebled frames, after the immortal tunic that bountiful Faith wove with deft fingers, giving an impenetrable covering to cleansed hearts to which she had already given rebirth? And so to feasts that last into the night, where the great tankard spills out wasted floods of foaming wine, while the ladles drip on to the table, the couches are soaked with neat liquor, and their embossed ornaments still wet with the dew of yesterday?
final_alignments\Prudentius_Psychomachia.json