Odes 2.18 (Creech): Non Ebur

NOr Ivory, nor Indian Stuff,
Nor Gold adorns my gawdy Roof;
No Cedar Beams press costly Stone
From Quarries of the torrid Zone,
Where burning Rayes the Marble mould,
And joyn the Mass with flowing Gold:
Nor yet have I an Heir unknown
E're seiz'd on Attalus his Throne;
No honest Clients hang my Rooms
With Purple stretcht on Tyrian Looms:
But yet I make a fair pretence
To Honesty and Innocence,
And store of Wit, and these compleat,
And make me sought to by the great:
This is my Wealth, This all my Store,
Content I ask the Gods no more;
Nor my great Friends: O bounteous Fate,
How happy in my mean Estate!
Days push on Days with equal pace,
New Moons still hast to the decrease,
But you e'en whilst the Bell doth toll,
And sadly warn thy flying Soul
Rich Stones provide, large Piles you rear,
Unmindful of your Sepulcher:
Thy Moles, and thy incroaching Mounds
Remove thy floods to streighter bounds,
For greedy you would seem but poor
Confin'd by Nature's narrow Shore:
Nay more you leap the Sacred bounds
And seize your meaner Clients Grounds;
No Fence too high, no Ditch too deep
For Wealthy Injury to leap:
Expell'd by greedy Avarice
The Wife with her dear Husband flies,
With all her Gods, (too weak defence
For Poor and injur'd Innocence,
They suffer in the common harms)
And sordid Infants in her Arms:
Yet after all this toyl and heat,
This Fraud and Treachery to be great,
The last retreat the Rich must have,
The last and surest, is the Grave:
What wouldst thou more? to Swains and Lords
An equal Room just Earth affords,
Nor does she take a Prince's Bones
With greater Rev'rence than a Clowns:
Ne're surly Charon brib'd with Gold
Brings back the Cunning or the Bold;
Nor will He waft Prometheus o're
And land him on the living Shore:
Proud Tantalus and all his Line,
Tho Kings, His lasting Chains confine;
And whether we his aid Implore
Or not, He's ready still to ease the Poor,
Free him from want, and place him on the happy Shore: