More happy he whose modest boardHis father's well-worn silver brightens;No fear, nor lust for sordid hoard,His light sleep frightens.Why bend our bows of little span?Why change our homes for regions underAnother sun? What exiled manFrom self can sunder?Care climbs the bark, and trims the sail,Curst fiend! nor troops of horse can 'scape her,More swift than stag, more swift than galeThat drives the vapour.Blest in the present, look not forthOn ills beyond, but soothe each bitterWith slow, calm smile. No suns on earthUnclouded glitter.Achilles' light was quench'd at noon;A long decay Tithonus minish'd;My hours, it may be, yet will runWhen yours are flnish'd.