He cheerfully does his past labours eat. Oh, does he so? your wise example, the ant Does not at all times rest, and plenty want. But, weighing justly a mortal ant’s condition, Divides his life ’twixt labour and fruition. Thee neither heat, nor storms, nor wet, nor cold From thy unnatural diligence can withhold, To the Indies thou wouldst run rather than see Another, though a friend, richer than thee. Fond man! what good or beauty can be found In heaps of treasure buried under ground? Which, rather than diminished e’er to see, Thou wouldst thyself, too, buried with them be And what’s the difference is’t not quite as bad Never to use, as never to have had? In thy vast barns millions of quarters store, Thy belly, for all that, will hold no more Than mine does. Every baker makes much bread, What then? He’s with no more than others fed. Do you within the bounds of Nature live, And to augment your own you need not strive; One hundred acres will no less for you Your life’s whole business than ten thousand do. But pleasant ’tis to take from a great store; What, man? though you’re resolved to take no more Than I do from a small one; if your will Be but a pitcher or a pot to fill, To some great river for it must you go, When a clear spring just at your feet does flow? Give me the spring which does to human use, Safe, easy, and untroubled stores produce; He who scorns these, and needs will drink at Nile, Must run the danger of the crocodile; And of the rapid stream itself which may, At unawares bear him perhaps away. In a full flood Tantalus stands, his skin Washed o’er in vain, for ever dry within; He catches at the stream with greedy lips, From his touched mouth the wanton torment slips. You laugh now, and expand your careful brow: ’Tis finely said, but what’s all this to you? Change but the name, this fable is thy story, Thou in a flood of useless wealth dost glory, Which thou canst only touch, but never taste; The abundance still, and still the want does last. The treasures of the gods thou wouldst not spare, But when they’re made thine own, they sacred are, And must be kept with reverence; as if thou No other use of precious gold didst know But that of curious pictures to delight With the fair stamp thy virtuoso sight. The only true and genuine use is this, To buy the things which nature cannot miss Without discomfort, oil, and vital bread. And wine by which the life of life is fed, And all those few things else by which we live All that remains is given for thee to give. If cares and troubles, envy, grief, and fear, The bitter fruits be which fair riches bear, If a new poverty grow out of store, The old plain way, ye gods! let me be poor. A PARAPHRASE ON AN ODE IN HORACE’S THIRD BOOK, BEGINNING THUS:— “_Inclusam Danaen turris ahenea_.”