Читать книгу The Consolation of Philosophy - Boethius - Страница 22

What though Plenty pour her gifts

With a lavish hand,

Numberless as are the stars,

Countless as the sand,

Will the race of man, content,

Cease to murmur and lament?

Nay, though God, all-bounteous, give

Gold at man's desire—

Honours, rank, and fame—content

Not a whit is nigher;

But an all-devouring greed

Yawns with ever-widening need.

Then what bounds can e'er restrain

This wild lust of having,

When with each new bounty fed

Grows the frantic craving?

He is never rich whose fear

Sees grim Want forever near.