Indulgence bids the dropsy grow;Who fain would quench the palate's flameMust rescue from the watery foeThe pale weak frame.Phraates, throned where Cyrus sate,May count for blest with vulgar herds,But not with Virtue; soon or lateFrom lying wordsShe weans men's lips; for him she keepsThe crown, the purple, and the bays,Who dares to look on treasure-heapsWith unblench'd gaze.An equal mind, when storms o'ercloud,Maintain, nor 'neath a brighter skyLet pleasure make your heart too proud,O Dellius, Dellius! sure te die,Whether in gloom you spend each year,Or through long holydays at easeIn grassy nook your spirit cheerWith old Falernian vintages,