Beatus ille qui procul negotiis,
ut prisca gens mortalium,
paterna rura bobus exercet suis
solutus omni fænore,

neque excitatur classico miles truci,
neque horret iratum mare,
Forumque vitat et superba civium
potentiorum limina.

ergo aut adulta vitium propagine
altas maritat populos,
aut in reducta valle mugentium
prospectat errantis greges,

inutilisque falce ramos amputans
feliciores inserit,
aut pressa puris mella condit amphoris,
aut tondet infirmas ovis.

Happy is the man who, far away from business cares, like the pristine race of mortals, works his ancestral acres with his steers, free from all money-lending;

who is not, as a soldier, roused by the wild clarion, nor dreads the angry sea; he avoids the Forum and proud thresholds of more powerful citizens;

and so he either weds his lofty poplar trees to well-grown vines, or in secluded dales looks out upon the ranging herds of lowing cattle,

and, cutting off useless branches with the pruning knife, engrafts more fruitful ones, or stores away pressed honey in clean jars, or shears the helpless sheep.