Suave, mari magno turbantibus.—Lib. II. v. 1.
Sweet is it, when the stormy winds have roused
The boisterous ocean, from on shore to view
The toiling mariner; not that the pain
Of others gives us pleasure, but for that
To see what ills we ’scape ourselves is sweet:
And it is sweet, when armies on the plain
Array’d for battle join in mortal strife,
To stand aloof from danger and look on:
But nothing sweeter is, than all serene
In the strong towers of wisdom high to dwell,
And thence look down upon the wandering race
Of men, that vainly seek the path of life;
Vying in genius, or nobility;
With unabated labour, night and day
Striving to rise supreme in wealth or power.