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.Indulgence bids the dropsy grow;Who fain would quench the palate's flameMust rescue from the watery foeThe pale weak frame.