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From Boethius: De Consolatione Philosophiae; Book Ii. Metre 2.

Rating: 2.5

Though countless as the grains of sand
That roll at Eurus' loud command;
Though countless as the lamps of night
That glad us with vicarious light;
Fair plenty, gracious queen, should pour
The blessings of a golden shower,
Not all the gifts of fate combin'd
Would ease the hunger of the mind,
But swallowing call the mighty store,
Rapacity would call for more;

For still where wishes most abound
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