Heir of Tyrrhenian kings, for youA mellow cask, unbroach'd as yet,Maecenas mine, and roses new,And fresh-drawn oil your locks to wet,Are waiting here. Delay not still,Nor gaze on Tibur, never dried,And sloping Aesule, and the hillOf Telegon the parricide.O leave that pomp that can but tire,Those piles, among the clouds at home;Cease for a moment to admireThe smoke, the wealth, the noise of Rome!In change e'en luxury finds a zest:The poor man's supper, neat, but spare,With no gay couch to seat the guest,Has smooth'd the rugged brow of care.Now glows the Ethiop maiden's sire;Now Procyon rages all ablaze;The Lion maddens in his ire,As suns bring back the sultry days: