The towers made of bronze, and the doors made of oak,
and the watch-dogs sombre vigil, would, surely, have
been enough, to protect imprisoned Danaë,
from adulterers in the night,

if Jupiter, and then Venus, hadn’t been laughing
at Acrisius, the girl’s anxious guardian:
since they knew that the path would be safe and open,
with the god as a shower of gold.

Gold loves to travel in the midst of fine servants,
and break through the rocks, since it’s far more powerful
than lightning bolts: didn’t the Greek prophet’s house fall
because of his riches, and sink

to ruin: and with gifts, the Macedonian
burst the gates of the cities, brought rival kingdoms
to destruction: and gifts of gold, too, are able
to snare fierce naval commanders.

Anxiety, and the hunger for more, pursues
growing wealth. It’s right, then, that I shrank from raising
my head to be seen far and wide, dear Maecenas,
glory of the Equestrians.

The more that a man denies himself, then the more
will flow from the gods: so naked, I seek the camp
of those who ask for nothing, I’m a deserter,
eager to abandon the rich,

a more glorious lord of the wealth that I spurn,
than if it were said I conceal, deep in my barns,
whatever the busy Apulians harvest:
destitute among great riches.
A stream of pure water, a few woodland acres,
and a confident faith in the crops from my fields,
are more blessed than the fate that deceives the shining
master of fertile Africa.

Though it’s true the Calabrian bees don’t bring me
their honey, and no Laestrygonian wine-jar
mellows for me, with no glossy fleece thickening
for me in the pastures of Gaul:

yet there’s still no presence of grinding poverty,
nor if I wished for more would you deny it me.
I can eke out my income more effectively
by constraining what I desire,

than if I were to join the Mygdonian plains
to the Lydian kingdom. To those who want much,
much is lacking: he’s happy to whom the god grants
just enough, from a careful hand.