Odes 3.24 (Creech): Intactis Opulentior

THough You had all the Spice and Gold
Arabia sweats, and the rich Indies hold;
Tho You extend Your Palaces
O're the Tyrrhene, and Pontick Seas;
When strong Necessity
Shall fix her Adamantine hooks on Thee,
When she shall drag away
The trembling melancholy Prey,
Not all thy Wealth shall save
Thy Mind from fear, or body from the grave.

Happier the wandring Scythians live,
Who all their house in one small Waggon drive,
Where no unequal bounds
Do parcel out the Land in private grounds,
The Corn grows freely for the Common good;
And when one Year their Fields they plow'd,
They sit at Ease, whilst others toyl,
And equal pains manure the Publick Soil.

There all the Cups the Step-dames hands present
To unsuspecting Heirs are innocent:
No Wife confiding on her Dower,
Or rich Gallant usurps her Husband's Power;
None there a lawless sway pretends,
Her Portion is the vertue of her Friends,
And cautious Modesty
That closer draws the marriage tye,
They fear to sin, or sinning doom'd to dye.

He that would prize his Country's good,
And stop the Issue of our Civil blood;
He that would stand in Brass as fixt as Fate,
Be nam'd the Father of the State;
Let him restrain this Brutal rage:
A glorious Man in future age!
Since Envious We despise
Vertue when present, when it flyes
Stand and gaze after it with longing Eyes!

But sad Complaints are vain,
Vice only yields to pain,
Her Sword strict Justice needs must draw,
And cut it off by necessary Law;
And what are Laws! State Pageantry!
Unless obey'd
With the same reverence they were made,
Unless our Manners and the Rules agree!

The Merchants dare to cut the Line,
Where beams still boyl the Metal in the Mine,
Nor can the frigid Coast
That lyes bound up with lazy Frost,
Nor all the Snow and Northern Ice,
E're cool the Sailer's flaming Avarice;
In feeble Ships they dare to ride
And boldly stem the highest Tide,
When scarce three inches them and Death divide,
For Poverty that great disgrace
Still drives them on the vicious race;
Whilst Vertue's Paths that lead on high
Untrod and unfrequented lie,
Few think it worth their while to climb the Sky.

To Jove's great Shrine let Romans bring
Their Wealth, a grateful Offering;
For those that thus their Treasures spend,
Just blessings Crown, and joyful shouts attend:
Or in the Neighbouring flood
Let's cast our Jewels and our Gold,
For which we have our Vertue sold,
Our Gold the dear-bought cause of all our blood:
Wealth, form'd near Hell, when here on Earth
Brings up the cursed Region of its birth.

If we repent, and hate the Crimes
And Follies of our own and Father's times,
We must root out the very seeds of Sin,
And plant new Vertue in;
The Soil is soft, and if manur'd with care,
And manly Arts, may bear
A fruitful Crop, Vertue may sprout again,
And with a Vast encrease reward the Tiller's pain.

Our Nobles Sons with an unequal force
Now scarce can sit the Manag'd Horse,
They Hate the Ring, nor dare to ride the Course:
But Cards, unlawful Dice,
And all the mysteries of Vice
That Greece e're taught, or Rome improv'd they know,
For these they nobler Deeds forgoe;
These are their Arts, their chief delights,
The Pleasures of their days, and study of their nights.

Mean while their perjur'd Fathers cheat,
Grow grey in base Oppression, and Deceit;
To their best Friends their Oaths are Snares,
Whilst at the vast Expence
Of Honesty and Innocence,
They Heap up Wealth for their unworthy Heirs.
Their Stores encrease, and yet, I know not what,
Still they do something want,
Which neither pains can get, nor Heav'n can grant,
To swell their Narrow to a full Estate.