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37

ODE II. To C. Crispus Sallustius.

How dim is Gold, how faint it shines,
When hid below in dirty Mines?
Still as it spends, more bright it shews,
And takes its Value from its Use.
When Fame of Proculeïus sings,
She mounts on Everlasting Wings;
His free and gen'rous Actions prove
A Father's in a Brother's Love.
The Man who curbs his vicious Mind,
When to base Avarice inclin'd,
A nobler Empire far maintains,
Than he who o'er all Africk reigns.
'Tis great this Passion to controul,
For 'tis the Dropsie of the Soul:
Unless you purge each sickly Vein,
'Twill Thirst, and Drink, and Thirst again.
Virtue ne'er reckons with the Blest,
The Man who sways the potent East:
No specious Names, no false Disguise
Can cheat her clear unerring Eyes:
Only to him she gives the Crown,
And puts the Laurel Garland on,
Who against Bribes undaunted stands,
That neither touch his Eyes nor Hands.
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