Ah Censorinus! to my comrades trueRich cups, rare bronzes, gladly would I send:Choice tripods from Olympia on each friendWould I confer, choicer on none than you,Had but my fate such gems of art bestow'dAs cunning Scopas or Parrhasius wrought,This with the brush, that with the chisel taughtTo image now a mortal, now a god.But these are not my riches: your desireSuch luxury craves not, and your means disdain:A poet's strain you love; a poet's strainAccept, and learn the value of the lyre.Not public gravings on a marble base,Whence comes a second life to men of mightE'en in the tomb: not Hannibal's swift flight,Nor those fierce threats flung back into his face,Not impious Carthage in its last red blaze,In clearer light sets forth his spotless fame,Who from crush'd Afric took away—a name,Than rude Calabria's tributary lays.