Partaker of hand-sprinklings, with the manySlaves stationed, his the Owner’s altar close to.Descend from out this car, nor be high-mindedAnd truly they do say Alkmené’s child onceBore being sold, slaves’ barley-bread his living.If, then, necessity of this lot o’erbalance,Much is the favour of old-wealthy masters:For those who, never hoping, made fine harvest