When life is o'er, and Minos has rehearsedThe grand last doom,Not birth, nor eloquence, nor worth, shall burstTorquatus' tomb.Not Dian's self can chaste HippolytusTo life recall,Nor Theseus free his loved PirithousFrom Lethe's thrall.

Ah Censorinus! to my comrades trueRich cups, rare bronzes, gladly would I send:Choice tripods from Olympia on each friendWould I confer, choicer on none than you,Had but my fate such gems of art bestow'dAs cunning Scopas or Parrhasius wrought,This with the brush, that with the chisel taughtTo image now a mortal, now a god.But these are not my riches: your desireSuch luxury craves not, and your means disdain:A poet's strain you love; a poet's strainAccept, and learn the value of the lyre.