Deep in rich pasture will thy flocks complain?
Not so; but to their master is denied
To share their sweet serene. Man, ill at ease,
In this, not his own place, this foreign field,
Where Nature fodders him with other food, 42
Than was ordain’d his cravings to suffice,
Poor in abundance, famish’d at a feast,
Sighs on for something more, when most enjoy’d.
Is Heaven, then, kinder to thy flocks than thee?
Not so; thy pasture richer, but remote;