. Neither gold , nor the world's
the million cities ,
neither the wealth of Thebes ,
that Homer sings , I desire .
Just my glass clean and round ,
always filled with fine good wine ,
to cool my lips in this
endless spring .
Around me, my beloved ones to sing and drink ,
and lots of men working in the
Such prosperity I yearn .
Holding my wine glass I give no penny
for country-squires and their opulence