The goal by hot wheels shunn'd, the famous prize,Exalt them to the gods that rule mankind;This joys, if rabbles fickle as the windThrough triple grade of honours bid him rise,That, if his granary has stored awayOf Libya's thousand floors the yield entire;The man who digs his field as did his sire,With honest pride, no Attalus may swayBy proffer'd wealth to tempt Myrtoan seas,The timorous captain of a Cyprian bark.The winds that make Icarian billows darkThe merchant fears, and hugs the rural easeOf his own village home; but soon, ashamedOf penury, he refits his batter'd craft.There is, who thinks no scorn of Massic draught,Who robs the daylight of an hour unblamed,Now stretch'd beneath the arbute on the sward,Now by some gentle river's sacred spring;Some love the camp, the clarion's joyous ring,And battle, by the mother's soul abhorr'd.