From towns and courts, camps of the rich and great,
The vast Xerxean army, I retreat,
And to the small Laconic forces fly
Which hold the straits of poverty.
Cellars and granaries in vain we fill
With all the bounteous summer’s store:
If the mind thirst and hunger still,
The poor rich man’s emphatically poor.
Slaves to the things we too much prize,
We masters grow of all that we despise.