Nor ape the glitt’ring upstart fool;

Shall not carved tables serve my turn,

But all must be of buhl?

Give grasping pomp its double care—

I ask but one recumbent chair.

Thus humble let me live and die,

Nor long for Midas’ golden touch;

If Heaven more gen’rous gifts deny,

I shall not miss them much—

Too grateful for the blessing lent