Odes 1.31 (Creech): Quid Dedicatum

WHat will the Poet beg to day
From Phoebus in his hallow'd Shrine,
For what doth He design to Pray,
Whil'st thus He pours his Holy Wine?

Not fat Sardinia's fruitful Crops,
Nor Flocks that hot Calabria feeds,
Nor Gold, nor Ivory raise his Hopes;
Those toys He neither loves, nor needs.

Not those rich Fields where Lyris runs
With quiet Streams, and wanton play,
The smoothest of the Ocean's Sons,
And gently eats his easie way.

Let him that Has one, Prune his Vine,
The Merchant now come safe to Land
In golden Gobblets quaff the Wine
His Syrian Wares and Voyage gain'd.

He chiefest Darling of the Gods,
For twice a year He plows the Main,
He rides the Proud Atlantick Floods,
And yet makes safe returns again!

Me Chicory and Olives feed,
Me loos'ning Mallows nobly feast,
They give what Nature's wants can need,
And kindly fill the easie Guest.

A Mind to use my present Store
With Health and Life, but not so long
As brings Contempt, or cramps my Song;
Grant this Apollo, and I ask no more.