The Consolation of Philosophy

Too much the former age was blest,

When fields their pleaséd owners failéd not,

Who, with no slothful lust opprest,

Broke their long fasts with acorns eas'ly got.

No wine with honey mixéd was,

Nor did they silk in purple colours steep;

They slept upon the wholesome grass,

And their cool drink did fetch from rivers deep.

The pines did hide them with their shade,

No merchants through the dangerous billows went,

Nor with desire of gainful trade

Their traffic into foreign countries sent.

Then no shrill trumpets did amate

The minds of soldiers with their daunting sounds,

Nor weapons were with deadly hate

Dyed with the dreadful blood of gaping wounds.

For how could any fury draw

The mind of man to stir up war in vain,

When nothing but fierce wounds he saw,

And for his blood no recompense should gain?

O that the ancient manners would

In these our latter hapless times return!

Now the desire of having gold

Doth like the flaming fires of Aetna burn.

Ah, who was he that first did show

The heaps of treasure which the earth did hide,

And jewels which lay close below,

By which he costly dangers did provide?