Classic Poem

You wonder why I, who in Rome have grown old,
Should still yearn for Salo and Tagus' rich gold,
And ever of far-distant lands sing the charms,
Desiring the fields of their opulent farms.
Well, I long for the place where a little supplies
All you need, and each cottage contains luxuries.
Here a farm means expense, there its owner it pays;
Here a poor stingy fire, but there a bright blaze.
Here hunger costs money and shops your purse drain;
There your table is stocked from your own rich domain.
Here four or more gowns in one summer wear through
There one will suffice for four autumns to go.
Fie then on your patrons. The country affords
Such wealth as you ne'er will obtain from proud lords.