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.Though no Calabrian bees their honey yieldFor me, nor mellowing sleeps the god of wineIn Formian jar, nor in Gaul's pasture-fieldThe 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 increaseMy tiny revenues,Than if to Alyattes' wide domainsI join'd the realms of Mygdon. Great desiresSort with great wants. 'Tis best, when prayer obtainsNo more than life requires.