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a web of many textures

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There is no virtue like it under heaven,
And he whose life is crowned with sweet content
Is rich as though old Crœsus' wealth were given,
E'en though, in fact, he be not worth a cent.
There is no bound to man's ambitious schemes:
His eager palm outspreads as on he goes,
Gold shimmers down through all his daily dreams,
The verb “to get” the only one he knows.
How blest is he who, whate'er may betide,
Sits smiling at the boon which fortune sends;
Who God's own finger has identified,
And deems that all he suffers rightly tends!
And I myself am something of this stuff,
Always contented when I have enough.