Elegy IX. He describes his disinterestedness to a friend

I NE'ER must tinge my lip with Celtic wines;
The pomp of India must I ne'er display;
Nor boast the produce of Peruvian mines,
Nor with Italian sounds deceive the day.

Down yonder brook my crystal bev'rage flows;
My grateful sheep their annual fleeces bring;
Fair in my garden buds the damask rose,
And from my grove I hear the throstle sing.

My fellow swains! avert your dazzled eyes;
In vain allur'd by glitt'ring spoils they rove;
The Fates ne'er meant them for the shepherd's prize,
Yet gave them ample recompense in love.

They gave you vigour from your parents' veins;
They gave you toils; but toils your sinews brace;
They gave you nymphs that own their am'rous pains,
And shades, the refuge of the gentle race.

To carve your loves, to paint your mutual flames,
See! polish'd fair, the beech's friendly rind!
To sing soft carols to your lovely dames,
See vocal grots, and echoing vales assign'd!

Wouldst thou, my Strephon! Love's delighted slave!
Tho' sure the wreaths of chivalry to share,
Forego the ribbon thy Matilda gave,
And giving, bade thee in remembrance wear?

Ill fare my peace, but ev'ry idle toy,
If to my mind my Delia's form it brings,
Has truer worth, imparts sincerer joy,
Than all that bears the radiant stamp of kings.

O my soul weeps, my breast with anguish bleeds,
When Love deplores the tyrant pow'r of Gain!
Disdaining riches as the futile weeds,
I rise superior, and the rich disdain.

Oft' from the stream, slow-wand'ring down the glade,
Pensive I hear the nuptial peal rebound;
" Some miser weds," I cry, "the captive maid,
" And some fond lover sickens at the sound."

Not Somerville, the Muse's friend of old,
Tho' now exalted to yon' ambient sky,
So shunn'd a soul distain'd with earth and gold,
So lov'd the pure, the gen'rous breast, as I.

Scorn'd be the wretch that quits his genial bowl,
His loves, his friendships, ev'n his self, resigns;
Perverts the sacred instinct of his soul,
And to a ducat's dirty sphere confines.

But come, my Friend! with taste, with science, blest,
Ere age impair me, and ere gold allure;
Restore thy dear idea to my breast,
The rich deposite shall the shrine secure.

Let others toil to gain the sordid ore,
The charms of independence let us sing;
Bless'd with thy friendship, can I wish for more?
I'll spurn the boasted wealth of Lydia's king.