Horace (Quintus Horatius Flaccus) - 1.1.3. lyrics

Still, a good many people misled by foolish desire Say: ‘There's never enough, you're only what you own.' What can one say to that? Let such people be wretched, Since that's what they wish: like the rich Athenian miser Who used to hold the voice of the crowd in contempt: ‘They hiss at me, that crew, but once I'm home I applaud Myself, as I contemplate all the riches in my chests.' Tantalus, thirsty, strains towards water that flees his lips – Why do you mock him? Alter a name and the same tale Is told of you: covetously sleeping on money-bags Piled around, forced to protect them like sacred objects, And take pleasure in them as if they were only paintings. Don't you know the value of money, what end it serves? Buy bread with it, cabbages, a pint of wine: all the rest, Things where denying them us harms our essential nature. Does it give you pleasure to lie awake half dead of fright, Terrified night and day of thieves or fire or slaves who rob You of what you have, and run away? I'd always wish To be poorest of the poor when it comes to such blessings. ‘But,' you say, ‘when your body's attacked by a feverish chill Or some other accident's confined you to your bed, I'd have someone to sit by me, prepare my medicine Call in the doctor to revive me, restore me to kith and kin.' Oh, but your wife doesn't want you well, nor your son: all Hate you, your friends and neighbours, girls and boys. Yet you wonder, setting money before all else, That no-one offers you the love you've failed to earn! While if you tried to win and keep the love of those kin Nature gave you without any trouble on your part, Your effort would be as wasted as trying to train A donkey to trot to the rein round the Plain of Mars.