Plato, Letters 310a

φίλων ἔρημος, ὦ τάλας, ἀπόλλυμαι· χρυσίου δὲ σπάνει ἀπολλύμενον οὐδεὶς πεποίηκεν. κἀκεῖνο δὲ τὸ ποίημα τοῖς νοῦν ἔχουσιν οὐ κακῶς ἔχειν δοκεῖ— οὐ χρυσὸς ἀγλαὸς σπανιώτατος ἐν θνατῶν δυσελπί- στῳ βίῳ, οὐδʼ ἀδάμας οὐδʼ ἀργύρου κλῖναι πρὸς ἄνθρωπον δοκιμαζόμενʼ ἀστράπτει πρὸς ὄψεις· οὐδὲ γαίας εὐρυπέδου γόνιμοι βρίθοντες αὐτάρκεις γύαι, ὡς ἀγαθῶν ἀνδρῶν ὁμοφράδμων νόησις.

Bereft of friends—ah! woe is me—I die. But not one of them has represented him as dying for lack of gold. This other poem also to men of judgement seemeth not amiss—In this our human life, with halting hopes, It is not glittering gold that rarest is: Not diamond nor couches silver-wrought Appear so brilliant in the eyes of men: Nor do the fertile fields of earth’s broad breast, Laden with crops, so all-sufficing seem As gallant men’s unanimous resolve.