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THE FRONTIER
Cotta
Would God the route would come for home.
My God, this place, day after day,
A month of heavy march from Rome.
This camp, the troopers' huts of clay,
The horses tugging at their pins,
The roaring brook and then the whins
And nothing new to do or say.
Lucius
They say the tribes are up.
Cotta
Who knows?
Lucius
Our scouts say that they saw their fires.
Cotta
Well, if we fight it's only blows
And bogging horses in the mires.
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