Licinius, trust a seaman's lore:Steer not too boldly to the deep,Nor, fearing storms, by treacherous shoreToo closely creep.Who makes the golden mean his guide,Shuns miser's cabin, foul and dark,Shuns gilded roofs, where pomp and prideAre envy's mark.With fiercer blasts the pine's dim heightIs rock'd; proud towers with heavier fallCrash to the ground; and thunders smiteThe mountains tall.In sadness hope, in gladness fear'Gainst coming change will fortifyYour breast. The storms that JupiterSweeps o'er the skyHe chases. Why should rain todayBring rain tomorrow? Python's foeIs pleased sometimes his lyre to play,Nor bends his bow.