Yet not for loved AntilochusGrey Nestor wasted all his yearsIn grief; nor o'er young TroilusHis parents' and his sisters' tearsFor ever flow'd. At length have doneWith these soft sorrows; rather tellOf Caesar's trophies newly won,And hoar Niphates' icy fell,And Medus' flood, 'mid conquer'd tribesRolling a less presumptuous tide,And Scythians taught, as Rome prescribes,Henceforth o'er narrower steppes to ride.Licinius, trust a seaman's lore:Steer not too boldly to the deep,Nor, fearing storms, by treacherous shoreToo closely creep.Who makes the golden mean his guide,Shuns miser's cabin, foul and dark,Shuns gilded roofs, where pomp and prideAre envy's mark.