Those hard-won honours shall not blight:No, Lollius, no: a soul is yours,Clear-sighted, keen, alike uprightWhen fortune smiles, and when she lowers:To greed and rapine still severe,Spurning the gain men find so sweet:A consul, not of one brief year,But oft as on the judgment-seatYou bend the expedient to the right,Turn haughty eyes from bribes away,Or bear your banners through the fight,Scattering the foeman's firm array.The lord of boundless revenues,Salute not him as happy: no,Call him the happy, who can useThe bounty that the gods bestow,Can bear the load of poverty,And tremble not at death, but sin:No recreant he when called to dieIn cause of country or of kin.