Maecenas, born of monarch ancestors,The shield at once and glory of my life!There are who joy them in the Olympic strifeAnd love the dust they gather in the course;The goal by hot wheels shunn'd, the famous prize,Exalt them to the gods that rule mankind;This joys, if rabbles fickle as the windThrough triple grade of honours bid him rise,That, if his granary has stored awayOf Libya's thousand floors the yield entire;The man who digs his field as did his sire,With honest pride, no Attalus may swayBy proffer'd wealth to tempt Myrtoan seas,The timorous captain of a Cyprian bark.The winds that make Icarian billows darkThe merchant fears, and hugs the rural easeOf his own village home; but soon, ashamedOf penury, he refits his batter'd craft.There is, who thinks no scorn of Massic draught,Who robs the daylight of an hour unblamed,