Who thinks of counting every separate blade
Upon the meadow’s verdant robe inlaid?
Who prays for numbered ears of ripening grain,
When lavish Ceres yellows o’er the plain?
Or to a scanty hundred would confine
The clustering grapes, when Bacchus loads the vine?
Who asks the guardian of the honeyed store
To grant a thousand bees, and grant no more?
Or tells the drops, while o’er some thirsty field
The liquid stores are from above distilled?