You bend the expedient to the right,Turn haughty eyes from bribes away,Or bear your banners through the fight,Scattering the foeman's firm array.The lord of boundless revenues,Salute not him as happy: no,Call him the happy, who can useThe bounty that the gods bestow,Can bear the load of poverty,And tremble not at death, but sin:No recreant he when called to dieIn cause of country or of kin.Here is a cask of Alban, moreThan nine years old: here grows for youGreen parsley, Phyllis, and good storeOf ivy too(Wreathed ivy suits your hair, you know):The plate shines bright: the altar, strew'dWith vervain, hungers for the flowOf lambkin's blood.