And so gain luster for himself; For greed of glory burns his heart. 620 Another from the royal stores Seeks to supply his own desires; And yet not all the precious sands Of Hister's streams could satisfy, Nor Lydia sate his thirst for gold; Nor that far land where Zephyr blows, Which looks in wonder on the gleam 625 Of Tagus' golden sands. Were all the wealth of Hebrus his; If rich Hydaspes were his own; If through his fields, with all its stream, He saw the Ganges flowing: still 630 For greed, base greed 'twould not suffice. One honors kings and courts of kings, Not that his careful husbandmen Forever stooping o'er the plow May never cease their toil for him; Or that his peasantry may till 635 His thousand fields: but wealth alone, Which he may hoard away, he seeks. Another worships kings, that so All other men he may oppress, May ruin many, none assist; And with this sole aim covets power, That he may use it ill. How few live out their fated span! 640 Whom yesternight saw radiant With joy, the newborn day beholds In wretched case. How rare it is To find old age and happiness Combined. More soft than Tyrian couch, The greensward soothes to fearless sleep; 645 But gilded ceilings break our rest, And sleepless through the night we lie On beds of luxury. Oh, should the rich lay bare their hearts, What fears which lofty fortune breeds Would be revealed! The Bruttian coast 650 When Corus lashes up the sea Is calmer far. Not so the poor: His heart is ever full of peace. From shallow beechen cups he drinks, But not with trembling hands; his food Is cheap and common, but he sees 655 No naked sword above his head. 'Tis in the cup of gold alone That blood is mingled with the wine. The poor man's wife no necklace wrought Of costly pearls, the red sea's gift, 660 May wear; no gems from eastern shores Weigh down her ears; nor does she wear Soft scarlet wools in Tyrian dye Twice dipped; not hers with Lydian art To 'broider costly silks whose threads 665 The Serians under sunlit skies From orient treetops gather; she With common herbs must dye the web Which she with unskilled hands has wov'n: But still her husband is her own, 670 Her couch by rivals undisturbed. But favored brides, whose wedding day The thronging people celebrate, Fate with her cruel torch pursues. The poor no happiness can know Unless he sees the fortunate From their high station fallen.