From Boethius: De Consolatione Philosophiae; Book II Metre 2

By Samuel Johnson

Though countless as the grains of sand

That roll at Eurus' loud command;

Though countless as the lamps of night

That glad us with vicarious light;

Fair plenty, gracious queen, should pour

The blessings of a golden shower,

Not all the gifts of fate combin'd

Would ease the hunger of the mind,

But swallowing call the mighty store,

Rapacity would call for more;

For still where wishes most abound

Unquench'd the thirst of gain is found;

In vain the shining gifts are sent,

For none are rich without content.