So I’d make a wretched wish and a prayer, as you go, that they’ll  Rest content with simply emptying their brimming pots over you.

You have to be filthy rich to find rest In Rome. That’s the source of our sickness.

Yet you wonder, setting money before all else, That no-one offers you the love you’ve failed to earn!

Though you’ve threshed a hundred thousand measures of corn That won’t make your stomach hold any more than mine: Just like the chain-gang where carrying the heavy bread-bag Over your shoulder won’t gain you more than the slave Who lifts nothing. Tell me then, what difference to the man Who lives within Nature’s bounds, whether he ploughs a hundred Acre s or a thousand?

Nothing deflects you from riches,