XXIII: Needy Furius, house nor hoard possessing

Needy Furius, house nor hoard possessing,
Bug or spider, or any fire to thaw you,
Yet most blest in a father and a step-dame,
Each for penury fit to tooth a flint-stone:
Is not happiness yours? a home united?
Son, sire, mother, a lathy dame to match him.

Who can wonder? in all is health, digestion,
Pure and vigorous, hours without a trouble.
Fires ye fear not, or house's heavy downfal,
Deeds unnatural, art in act to poison,
Dangers myriad accidents befalling.

Then your bodies? in every limb a shrivell'd
Horn, all dryness in all the world whatever,
Tann'd or frozen or icy-lean with ages.
Sure superlative happiness surrounds thee.
Thee sweat frets not, an o'er-saliva frets not,
Frets not snivel or oozy rheumy nostril.

Yet such purity lacks not e'en a purer.
White those haunches as any cleanly-silver'd
Salt, it takes you a month to barely dirt them.
Then like beans, or inert as e'er a pebble,
Those impeccable heavy loins, a finger's
Breadth from apathy ne'er seduced to riot.

Such prosperity, such superb profusion,
Slight not, Furius, idly nor reject not.
As for sesterces, all the would-be fortune,
Cease to wish it; enough, methinks, the present.