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