Though your buried wealth surpassThe unsunn'd gold of Ind or Araby,Though with many a ponderous massYou crowd the Tuscan and Apulian sea,Let Necessity but driveHer wedge of adamant into that proud head,Vainly battling will you striveTo 'scape Death's noose, or rid your soul of dread.Better life the Scythians lead,Trailing on waggon wheels their wandering home,Or the hardy Getan breed,As o'er their vast unmeasured steppes they roam;Free the crops that bless their soil;Their tillage wearies after one year's space;Each in turn fulfils his toil;His period o'er, another takes his place.There the step-dame keeps her handFrom guilty plots, from blood of orphans clean;There no downed wives commandTheir feeble lords, or on adulterers lean.