as long as it lacks disease and helpless deprivation. The rich man desires great things the same way the poor man desires less. But it is not sweet for mortals to get everything easily; they always seek to catch what flees from them. A man whose spirit is whirled about by the lightest ambitions has honor only as long as he lives. Excellence is a difficult struggle, but when the struggle is completed rightly it leaves a man, even when he dies, the enviable ornament of renown. Ode 2 For Argeius of Ceos Boys' Boxing Match (?) at the Isthmus Date unknown Fame, whose gifts are revered, speed to holy Ceos bringing the gracious message: that Argeius won the victory in the battle of bold hands, and brought to mind the fine deeds which we, from the holy island of Euxantius, have shown at the famous neck of the Isthmus, winning seventy garlands. the native Muse summons the sweet clang of flutes, honoring the dear son of Pantheides with victory songs. Ode 3 For Hieron of Syracuse Chariot-Race at Olympia 468 B. C. Clio , giver of sweet gifts, sing the praises of the mistress of most fertile Sicily , Demeter, and of her violet-garlanded daughter, and of Hieron's swift horses, racers at Olympia ; for they sped with majestic Victory and with Aglaia by the wide-whirling Alpheus, where they made the son of Deinomenes a prosperous man, a victor winning garlands. And the people shouted, Ah! thrice-blessed man! Zeus has granted him the honor of ruling most widely over the Greeks, and he knows not to hide his towered wealth under black-cloaked darkness. The temples teem with cattle-sacrificing festivities; the streets teem with hospitality. Gold flashes and glitters, the gold of tall ornate tripods standing before the temple, where the Delphians administer the great precinct of Phoebus beside the Castalian stream. A man should honor the god, for that is the greatest prosperity. For indeed, once the ruler of horse-taming Lydia , Croesus—when Zeus was bringing about the decreed fate, and Sardis was being sacked by the Persian army—Croesus was protected by the god of the golden lyre, Apollo. When he had come to that unexpected day, Croesus had no intention of waiting any longer for the tears of slavery. He had a pyre built before his bronze-walled courtyard, and he mounted the pyre with his dear wife and his daughters with beautiful hair; they were weeping inconsolably. He raised his arms to the steep sky and shouted, overweening deity, where is the gratitude of the gods? Where is lord Apollo? The palace of Alyattes falls into ruins countless city the Pactolus whirling with [gold runs red with blood], women are brutally led out of the well-built halls. What was hated is loved. To die is sweetest. So he spoke, and he bid the slave with the delicate step to kindle the wooden structure. His daughters cried out, and threw their arms out towards their mother; for death is most hateful to mortals when it is right before their eyes. But when the flashing force of terrible fire began to shoot through the wood, Zeus set a dark rain-cloud over it, and began to quench the golden flame.