As riches grow, care follows: men repineAnd thirst for more. No lofty crest I raise:Wisdom that thought forbids, Maecenas mine,The knightly order's praise.He that denies himself shall gain the moreFrom bounteous Heaven. I strip me of my pride,Desert the rich man's standard, and pass o'erTo bare Contentment's side,More proud as lord of what the great despiseThan if the wheat thresh'd on Apulia's floorI hoarded all in my huge granaries,'Mid vast possessions poor.A clear fresh stream, a little field o'ergrownWith shady trees, a crop that ne'er deceives,Pass, though men know it not, their wealth, that ownAll Afric's golden sheaves.Though no Calabrian bees their honey yieldFor me, nor mellowing sleeps the god of wineIn Formian jar, nor in Gaul's pasture-fieldThe wool grows long and fine,