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Happier than any of the Seven Sages.

His neighbour, on the other hand, whose wealth

Imposed on him eternal watchfulness,

(This was a great Financier), lost his health,

Sang little and slept less.

At daybreak, if he fell into a doze,

The Cobbler's piping brought it to a close;

Until at last the poor Rich Man complained

That Providential Care

Had not made Sleep a saleable affair,

Like meat or drink or aught by Money gained.

He sent for him whose song

Had worn him out so long:

"Now tell me. Master Gregory," he cried,

"What do you make a year?" "My faith," replied

The Cobbler with a smile,

"It is not, Sir, my style

To count like that; I scarce can look ahead

From week to week enough, if without fear

Of actual want, I can get through the year:

Each day provides me bread."

"Well, well, what do you earn then by the day?"

"Now more, now less; the mischief of it is

(And decent would our gains be but for this),

There are so many days that we must lay

Our work aside; they ruin us with fêtes,

Saints' Days, that is:—and Master Parson prates

Of some new Saint in every Sermon now."

The Rich Man smiled at this simplicity.