Horace Ode 1.1

Maecenas, born from ancient kings, o! both my bulwark and sweet glory, there are (those) whom it pleases to have gathered Olympic dust on their chariot and the turning post cleared by the hot wheels, and the noble palm lifts the lords of the lands to the gods; (it pleases) this man, if the crowd of mobile Quirites strives to lift with triple honors, that man if he has stored away in his own granary whatever is turned up from Libyan threshing-floors. You would never move with the terms of Attalus the one rejoicing to split his paternal fields with a hoe to cut the Myrtoan sea as a fearful sailor in a Cyprian boat (lit. log). The merchant fearing the African wind striving with Icarian waves praises leisure and the fields of his own town; soon he refits his shaken ships, not taught to endure poverty. There is one who spurns neither cups of old Massican (wine) nor to subtract part from the work day, having spread his limbs now under the green arbutus, now at the gentle head of a sacred water. Camps please many and the sound of the trumpet mixed with the horn and wars hated by mothers. The hunter remains under a cold Jove forgetful of his tender wife if a deer has been seen by his faithful pups or a Marsian boar bursts the close-twisted nets. Prizes of the ivy of the learned brows mix me with the gods above, the chill grove and the light choruses of Nymphs with Satyrs separate me from the people, if neither Euterpe withholds the flutes nor Polyhymnia refuses to offer the Lesbian lyre. But if you count me among the lyric prophets, I shall strike the stars with my lofty head.