The poems of Horace consisting of odes, satyres, and epistles / rendred in English verse by several persons.

ODE XVIII. By Sir T. H.

He affirmeth himself to be contented with a little, while o∣thers are wholly addicted to their desires, and increase of riches, as if they should alwayes live.

NO guided roof, nor Ivory Fret, For splendor in my house is set; Nor are beams from Hymettia sought, To lie a-thwart rich Colmns, brought From Africk; nor I heir unkown, Make Attalus his wealth, mine own. No honest Tenants wives you see, Laconian purples weave for me: A loyal heart, and ready vain Of wit I have, which doth constrain Rome's richest men to seek the love Of me, though poor: Nor gods above Doe I invoke for larger store; Nor of Maecenas ask I more. To me my single Sabine field, Sufficient happiness doth yield. One day thrusts on another fast, And new Moons to the wane do hast. When Death (perhaps) is neer at hand, Thou fairest Marbles dost command Be cut for use, yet dost neglect Thy grave, and houses still erect: Nay would'st abridge the vast Seas shore, Which loudly doth at Baiae rore: Enriched little, less content, With limits of the Continent.

Why often pull'st thou up the bounds, T' enlarge the circuit of thy grounds, Encroaching far from Confines known, To make the neigbouring field thine own? The husband, wife, and sordid brood, With antient houshold gods, that stood In quiet peace, must be expell'd: Yet is not any Mansion held For the rich Land-lord, so assur'd, As deep in Hell to be immur'd. Then whither do you further tend? Th' indiffrent earth an equal friend, As willingly opens her womb, For Beggars grave, as Princes tomb. Gold could of Charon not obtain, To bear Prometheus back again. Proud Tantalus, and all his stock, Death, with the bands of fate doth lock: And call'd, or not call'd ready stands, To free the poor from painful bands.