Odes 2.2 (Creech): Nullus Argento

DEar Friend whose generous thoughts despise
The creeping Fears of Avarice,
How Silver looks, how mean and base,
How much below the common Brass,
Unless a Moderate use refine,
A value give and make it shine?

Kind Proculeius, just and good,
In Fame as Noble as in Blood,
Who with a Father's care did grant
Supplies and eas'd his Brother's Want,
Long long shall live; surviving Fame
On lasting Wings shall bear his Name.

That Man a wider Empire gains
That his own craving wish restrains,
Than he whose Sword and wide Command,
Joyn distant Spain and Libya's Sand,
Than if they did his Arms obey,
And either Carthage own his sway:

The Dropsies still by Drink increase,
In Rain are all our hopes of ease;
The Jaws are dry, the Thrist remains
Until the fatal Humors cease;
Until the cause of the Disease
Shall leave the swoln and craving Veins:

Phraates fixt in Cyrus Throne,
Ador'd like Persia's rising Sun,
True sence that scorns the Peoples test
Ne're ranks amongst the happy Blest;
From cheats of Words the Crowd she brings
To real Estimate of things:

To him she gives, to him alone
The Laurel, and the lasting Throne
Whose Eyes can unconcern'd behold.
The darling heaps of shining Gold;
Whose mind doth never Wealth pursue,
Nor turn to take a second view: