What gulf, what river has not seenThose sights of sorrow? nay, what seaHas Daunian carnage yet left green?What coast from Roman blood is free?But pause, gay Muse, nor leave your playAnother Cean dirge to sing;With me to Venus' bower away,And there attune a lighter string.The silver, Sallust, shows not fairWhile buried in the greedy mine:You love it not till moderate wearHave given it shine.Honour to Proculeius! heTo brethren play'd a father's part;Fame shall embalm through years to beThat noble heart.Who curbs a greedy soul may boastMore power than if his broad-based throneBridged Libya's sea, and either coastWere all his own.