I, Mantua, first will bring thee back the palms — Mantua

"Primus Idumaeas referam tibi, Mantua, palmas, Et viridi in campo templum de marmore ponam Propter aquam. Tardis ingens ubi flexibus errat Mincius et tenera praetexit arundine ripas."

"Fatidicæ Mantus et Tusci filius amnis, Qui muros matrisque dedit tibi, Mantua, nomen."

"Above in beauteous Italy lies a lake At the Alp’s foot that shuts in Germany Over Tyrol, and has the name Benaco.By a thousand springs, I think, and more, is bathed, ’Twixt Garda and Val Camonica, Pennino, With water that grows stagnant in that lake.Midway a place is where the Trentine Pastor, And he of Brescia, and the Veronese Might give his blessing, if he passed that way.Sitteth Peschiera, fortress fair and strong, To front the Brescians and the Bergamasks, Where round about the bank descendeth lowest.There of necessity must fall whatever In bosom of Benaco cannot stay, And grows a river down through verdant pastures.Soon as the water doth begin to run, No more Benaco is it called, but Mincio, Far as Governo, where it falls in Po.Not far it runs before it finds a plain In which it spreads itself, and makes it marshy, And oft ’tis wont in summer to be sickly.Passing that way the virgin pitiless Land in the middle of the fen descried, Untilled and naked of inhabitants;There to escape all human intercourse, She with her servants stayed, her arts to practise And lived, and left her empty body there.The men, thereafter, who were scattered round, Collected in that place, which was made strong By the lagoon it had on every side;They built their city over those dead bones, And, after her who first the place selected, Mantua named it, without other omen.Its people once within more crowded were, Ere the stupidity of Casalodi From Pinamonte had received deceit.Therefore I caution thee, if e’er thou hearest Originate my city otherwise, No falsehood may the verity defraud.”"

"At Mantua in chains The gallant Hofer lay, In Mantua to death Led him the foe away; His brothers’ hearts bled for the chief, For Germany disgrace and grief And Tyrol’s mountain land! His hands behind him clasped, With firm and measured pace, Marched Andrew Hofer on; He feared not death to face, Death whom from Iselberg aloft Into the vale he sent so oft In Tyrol’s holy land. But when from dungeon-grate, In Mantua’s stronghold, Their hands on high he saw His faithful brothers hold, “O God be with you all!” he said, “And with the German realm betrayed, And Tyrol’s holy land!” The drummer’s hand refused To beat the solemn march, While Andrew Hofer passed The portal’s gloomy arch; In fetters shackled, yet so free, There on the bastion stood he, Brave Tyrol’s gallant son. They bade him then kneel down, He answered, “I will not! Here standing will I die, As I have stood and fought, As now I tread this bulwark’s bank, Long life to my good Kaiser Frank, And, Tyrol, hail to thee!” A grenadier then took The bandage from his hand, While Hofer spoke a prayer His last on earthly land. “Mark well!” he with loud voice exclaimed, “Now fire! Ah! ’t was badly aimed! O Tyrol, fare thee well!”"

"Next Ocnus summoned forth A war-host from his native shores, the son Of Tiber, Tuscan river, and the nymph Manto, a prophetess: he gave good walls, O Mantua, and his mothers name, to thee,— To Mantua so rich in noble sires, But of a blood diverse, a triple breed, Four stems in each; and over all enthroned She rules her tribes: her strength is Tuscan born."

"ROMEO: I do remember an apothecary— And hereabouts he dwells—whom late I noted In tattered weeds, with overwhelming brows, Culling of simples. Meagre were his looks; Sharp misery had worn him to the bones; And in his needy shop a tortoise hung, An alligator stuff’d, and other skins Of ill-shap’d fishes; and about his shelves A beggarly account of empty boxes, Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds, Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses, Were thinly scatter’d to make up a show. Noting this penury, to myself I said, And if a man did need a poison now— Whose sale is present death in Mantua— Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him. O, this same thought did but forerun my need; And this same needy man must sell it me. As I remember, this should be the house; Being holiday, the beggar’s shop is shut.— What, ho! apothecary!"