From Boethius: De Consolatione Philosophiae; Book Ii. Metre 2.
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.