The silver, Sallust, shows not fairWhile buried in the greedy mine:You love it not till moderate wearHave given it shine.Honour to Proculeius! heTo brethren play'd a father's part;Fame shall embalm through years to beThat noble heart.Who curbs a greedy soul may boastMore power than if his broad-based throneBridged Libya's sea, and either coastWere all his own.Indulgence bids the dropsy grow;Who fain would quench the palate's flameMust rescue from the watery foeThe pale weak frame.Phraates, throned where Cyrus sate,May count for blest with vulgar herds,But not with Virtue; soon or lateFrom lying wordsShe weans men's lips; for him she keepsThe crown, the purple, and the bays,Who dares to look on treasure-heapsWith unblench'd gaze.