What , while my best oblations thus I pay,
Shall I request? great God of verse and day!
Not all the golden grain Britannia yields,
Or fleecy flocks that throng her fertile fields;
Not meads and villas wash'd by silver Thames,
Or endless wealth that loads his smiling streams:
Let fortune's fav'rites prune their subject vines,
Let merchants quaff in gold the gen'rous wines,
While prosp'ring Gods each wealthy bark sustain,
That frequent plows the wide Atlantic main:
Me, herbs and fruits and simple viands please;
O grant, Latona's son! O grant me Ease,
Content and Health—an ever-tuneful lyre—
Rever'd old age—these bound my full desire.