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The Odes and Epodon of Horace, In Five Books

Translated into English by J. H. [i.e. John Harington]

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Ode XVIII.
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Ode XVIII.

He saith, he is Content with smaller things, whilst others cherish vain Desires, as if they should ne're Dye.

No Ivory, Gold roof
My House does dress with Gorgeous stuff;
Nor Marble beams dear-bought
Columes from furthest Aff'rick brought
O're-press; nor House or Land
False-Heir'd usurped by my hand:
Nor Lacon Purples spin
Tenants chast Wives to cloath me in:
But Truth that treasure yet
I have, convenient share of Wit.
Rich court my Rank though Poor,
Nor trouble I the Gods for more;
Nor my great Friend, as one
Happy in Sabine field alone.

47

This Day doth the other press
And new Moons growing Old decease,
Thou Marble near death's doom
Send'st forth to smooth, forgot thy Tomb,
Buildst Houses brave, the Shoar
Would stretch where Seas at Baya roar:
Distend them still in Pride,
With narrow Bank not satisfi'd.
Why, Churl, enlarg'd thy Grounds
Still more, beyond next Tenants bounds
Dost greedy Leap, advance?
Man, Wife's driven out for vagrant Dance,
Their Gods in bosome born;
On back their sordid Brats and torn:
No surer Hall of state
Though waits their wealthy Lord from Fate,
Then th' hungry Infernal Den:
Why striv'st for more? to th' basest men,
King's sons Earth's opened free;
Nor churlish Stygian Guard (we see)
Gold-brib'd, or caught by slight,
Would row PROMETHEUS back to Light.
This curbs proud TANTALUS,
With's Regal race; this called does,
Uncall'd, with Boat addrest
Convoy the poor tir'd Man to rest.