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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=539258" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Elegy IX. He Describes His Disinterestedness to a Friend</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I ne'er must tinge my lip with Celtic wines;<br>The pomp of India must I ne'er display;<br>Nor boast the produce of Peruvian mines;<br>Nor with Italian sounds deceive the day.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Down yonder brook my crystal beverage flows;<br>My grateful sheep their annual fleeces bring;<br>Fair in my garden buds the damask rose,<br>And from my grove I hear the throstle sing.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">My fellow swains! avert your dazzled eyes;<br>In vain allured by glittering spoils they rove;<br>The Fates ne'er meant them for the shepherd's prize,<br>Yet gave them ample recompence in love.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They gave you vigour from your parents' veins;<br>They gave you toils, but toils your sinews brace;<br>They gave you nymphs, that own their amorous pains;<br>And shades, the refuge of the gentle race.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">To carve your loves, to paint your mutual flames,<br>See, polish'd fair, the beech's friendly rind!<br>To sing soft carols to your lovely dames,<br>See vocal grots and echoing vales assign'd!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Wouldst thou, my Strephon, Love's delighted slave!<br>Though sure the wreaths of chivalry to share,<br>Forego the riband thy Matilda gave,<br>And, giving, bade thee in remembrance wear?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ill fare my peace, but every idle toy,<br>If to my mind my Delia's form it brings,<br>Has truer worth, imparts sincerer joy,<br>Than all that bears the radiant stamp of kings.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O my soul weeps, my breast with anguish bleeds,<br>When Love deplores the tyrant power of Gain!<br>Disdaining riches as the futile weeds,<br>I rise superior, and the rich disdain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oft from the stream, slow-wandering down the glade,<br>Pensive I hear the nuptial peal rebound:<br>'Some miser weds,' I cry, 'the captive maid,<br>And some fond lover sickens at the sound.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Not Somerville, the Muse's friend of old,<br>Though now exalted to yon ambient sky,<br>So shunn'd a soul distain'd with earth and gold,<br>So loved the pure, the generous breast, as I.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Scorn'd be the wretch that quits his genial bowl,<br>His loves, his friendships, even his self resigns;<br>Perverts the sacred instinct of his soul,<br>And to a ducat's dirty sphere confines.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But come, my Friend! with taste, with science blest,<br>Ere age impair me, and ere gold allure:<br>Restore thy dear idea to my breast,<br>The rich deposit shall the shrine secure.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Let others toil to gain the sordid ore,<br>The charms of independence let us sing:<br>Bless'd with thy friendship, can I wish for more?<br>I'll spurn the boasted wealth of Lydia's king.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=William+Shenstone">William Shenstone</a><div class=q>
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The pomp of India must I ne'er display;
Nor boast the produce of Peruvian mines;
Nor with Italian sounds deceive the day.

Down yonder brook my crystal beverage flows;
My grateful sheep their annual fle..."></div>
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