Your heart on Arab wealth is set,Good Iccius: you would try your steelOn Saba's kings, unconquerd yet,And make the Mede your fetters feel.Come, tell me what barbarian fairWill serve you now, her bridegroom slain?What page from court with essenced hairWill tender you the bowl you drain,Well skill'd to bend the Serian bowHis father carried? Who shall sayThat rivers may not uphill flow,And Tiber's self return one day,If you would change Panaetius' works,That costly purchase, and the clanOf Socrates, for shields and dirks,Whom once we thought a saner man?