As riches grow his wants increase,
His passions burn and gnaw his peace,
Ambition foams like raging seas
And breaks the rein,
Excess produces pale disease
And racking pain.

Compared with him thrice happy you;
Though small your stock your wants are few--
Each wild desire your toils subdue,
And sweeten rest,
Remove all fancied ills from view,
And calm your breast.

Your labours give the coarsest food
A relish sweet and cleanse the blood,
Make cheerful health in spring-tide flood
Incessant boil,
And seldom restless thoughts obtrude
On daily toil.

Those relish least who proudly own
Rich groves and parks familiar grown;
The gazing stranger passing on
Enjoys them most--
The toy possessed--the pleasure's flown,
For ever lost.

Then grateful let each murmur die,
And joyous wipe the tearful eye: