Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale,
Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery vale;
For me your tributary stores combine;
Creation’s heir, the world—the world is mine! 50
As some lone miser, visiting his store,
Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o’er;
Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill,
Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still:
Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, 55
Pleas’d with each good that Heaven to man supplies: