Horace, creator; Conington, John, 1825-1869, editor

  • He that denies himself shall gain the more
  • From bounteous Heaven. I strip me of my pride,
  • Desert the rich man's standard, and pass o'er
  • To bare Contentment's side,
  • More proud as lord of what the great despise
  • Than if the wheat thresh'd on Apulia's floor
  • I hoarded all in my huge granaries,
  • 'Mid vast possessions poor.
  • A clear fresh stream, a little field o'ergrown
  • With shady trees, a crop that ne'er deceives,
  • Pass, though men know it not, their wealth, that own
  • All Afric's golden sheaves.
  • Though no Calabrian bees their honey yield
  • For me, nor mellowing sleeps the god of wine
  • In Formian jar, nor in Gaul's pasture-field
  • The wool grows long and fine,
  • Yet Poverty ne'er comes to break my peace;
  • If more I craved, you would not more refuse.
  • Desiring less, I better shall increase
  • My tiny revenues,