Classic Poem

A tow'r of brass, whose doors were barr'd
With oak, while howling, upon guard,
Stood dogs, prepar'd to bite,
Had been sufficient, to be sure,
Imprison'd Danae to secure
From rakes that prowl by night;
If Jove, and she of ocean born,
Had not Acrisius laugh'd to scorn,
With all his anxious tribe;
A way they found was fair and free,
When once the god should make his plea,
Transform'd into a bribe.
Gold through the centinels can pass,
And break through rocks and tow'rs of brass,
Than thunder-bolts more strong:
That Argive prophet lost his life,
And was undone, because his wife
Was bought to do him wrong.
The Macedon of such renown,
With gifts the city-gates broke down,
And foil'd his rival kings:
Gifts ev'n can naval chiefs ensnare,
Though rough and honest, they would care
For more superior things.
Anxiety pursues increase,
And craving never like to cease —
I have myself deny'd
With cause to lift my crest on high,
And with such men as thee to vie,
O knighthood's peerless pride.
The more a man himself refrains,
The more from heav'n his virtue gains:
I pitch my tent with those
Who their desires, like me, divest,
And, as an enemy profest,
The slaves of wealth oppose.
More noble in my lowly lot,
Than if together I had got
Whate'er th'Appulian ploughs;
And poor amongst great riches still,
The fruit of no mean toil and skill,
Could in my garners house.
A wood of moderate extent,
And stream of purest element,
And harvest-home secure,
Make me more happy than the weight
Of Africa's precarious state
Of empire could ensure.
What tho' nor sweet Calabrian bee
Makes his nectarious comb for me,
Nor Formian wine grows old
Within my cellars many a year,
Though from rich Gallic meads I shear
No fleeces of the fold:
Yet want's remote, that wretched fate,
That makes a man importunate —
If more I should require,
I should not be refus'd by you —
But I must raise my revenue
By curbing my desire.
And better so, than should I add
The Lydian realm to what I had,
And all the Phrygian land;
They that crave most, possess the least —
'Tis well where'er enough's the feast;
Heav'n gives with frugal hand.