The Consolation of Philosophy · 17 of 78

Book II, Song II: Man’s Covetousness

What though Plenty pour her gifts With a lavish hand, Numberless as are the stars, Countless as the sand, Will the race of man, content, Cease to murmur and lament?

Nay, though God, all-bounteous, give Gold at man’s desire— Honours, rank, and fame—content Not a whit is nigher; But an all-devouring greed Yawns with ever-widening need.

Then what bounds can e’er restrain This wild lust of having, When with each new bounty fed Grows the frantic craving? He is never rich whose fear Sees grim Want forever near.