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.