O fortunatos nimium, sua si bona norint Agricolas, quibus ipsa, procul discordibus armis, Fundit humo facilem victum justissima tellus!
O happy, far too happy—did ye wot, Ye rustic swains, the blessings of your lot; Remote from war, by labour ye are fed, And the impartial Earth, with daily bread. Book II, lines 458–460 (translated by J. B. Rose).