If from my sheep the thief, the wolf, be driven,
If fatter flocks allure them more,
To me the riches to my fathers given
Kind Heaven need not restore.
My small, sure crop contents me; and the storm
That pelts my thatch breaks not my rest,
While to my heart I clasp the beauteous form
Of her it loves the best.
My simple cot brings such secure repose,
When so companioned I can lie,
That winds of winter and the whirling snows
Sing me soft lullaby.
This lot be mine! I envy not their gold
Who rove the furious ocean foam:
A frugal life will all my pleasures hold,
If love be mine, and home.
Enough I travel, if I steal away
To sleep at noon-tide by the flow
Of some cool stream. Could India's jewels pay
For longer absence? No!
Let great Messala vanquish land and sea,
And deck with spoils his golden hall!
I am myself a conquest, and must be
My Delia's captive thrall.
Be Delia mine, and Fame may flout and scorn,
Or brand me with the sluggard's name!
With cheerful hands I'll plant my upland corn,
And live to laugh at Fame.
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