Classic Poem

When gold hies from me, faithless runagate,
On feet swift as the chariot-wheels of fate,
I follow him not: who ever knew
One a thing hateful to pursue?

But when released from false and fickle gold
The cares of life upon me have no hold;
They fly with the swift winds — my lyre
Breathes only love and soft desire.

Then when my merry tuneful spirit learns
Gold to despise the runagate returns,
And bringing in of griefs a crowd
He sues me, although once so proud,

In humble wise him for a friend to choose,
And prove a traitor to the lyric muse:
But vainly treacherous gold beguiles —
My harp is better than his wiles.

Thou hast, O gold, by means of craft and fraud
Supplanted love — men praise thee as a god;
The lyre indeed thou wouldst sordid make,
And the charm from true love kisses take.

The miser's avarice thou mayst incite,
But as for me I scorn thy subtle might.
Of my lyre's music I shall not
Because of thee abate a jot.