In Praise Of Contentment

(HORACE'S ODES, III, I)     I hate the common, vulgar herd!     Away they scamper when I "booh" 'em!     But pretty girls and nice young men     Observe a proper silence when     I chose to sing my lyrics to 'em.     The kings of earth, whose fleeting pow'r     Excites our homage and our wonder,     Are precious small beside old Jove,     The father of us all, who drove     The giants out of sight, by thunder!     This man loves farming, that man law,     While this one follows pathways martial--     What moots it whither mortals turn?     Grim fate from her mysterious urn     Doles out the lots with hand impartial.     Nor sumptuous feasts nor studied sports     Delight the heart by care tormented;     The mightiest monarch knoweth not     The peace that to the lowly cot     Sleep bringeth to the swain contented.     On him untouched of discontent     Care sits as lightly as a feather;     He doesn't growl about the crops,     Or worry when the market drops,     Or fret about the changeful weather.     Not so with him who, rich in fact,     Still seeks his fortune to redouble;     Though dig he deep or build he high,     Those scourges twain shall lurk anigh--     Relentless Care, relentless Trouble!     If neither palaces nor robes     Nor unguents nor expensive toddy     Insure Contentment's soothing bliss,     Why should I build an edifice     Where Envy comes to fret a body?     Nay, I'd not share your sumptuous cheer,     But rather sup my rustic pottage,     While that sweet boon the gods bestow--     The peace your mansions cannot know--     Blesseth my lowly Sabine cottage.