Thy house, the hell, thy good, the flood, which, thoughe it doe not starte,
Nor stirre from thee, yet hath it so in houlde thy servyle hearte,
That though in foysonne full thou swimmes, and rattles in thy bagges,
Yet tost thou arte with dreadefulle dreames, thy mynde it waves and wagges,
And wisheth after greater things, and that, thats woorste of all,
Thou sparst it as an hollye thynge, and doste thy selfe in thralle
Unto thy lowte, and cockescome lyke thou doste but fille thine eye
With that, which shoulde thy porte preserve, and hoyste thyne honor hye.
Thou scannes it, and thou toots upponte, as thoughe it were a warke
By practysde painters hande portrayde with shaddowes suttle darke.
Is this the perfytte ende of coyne? be these the veray vayles
That money hath, to serve thy syghte? fye, fye thy wysedome fayles.
Tharte misse insenste, thou canst not use't, thou wotes not what to do
Withall, by cates, bye breade, bye drincke, in fyne disburse it so,
That nature neede not move her selfe, nor with a betments scant
Distrainte, and prickd passe forth her daye in pyne and pinchinge want.
[tr. Drant (1567)]

Thee,
Who on thy full cramb'd Bags together laid,
Do'st lay thy sleepless and affrighted head;
And do'st no more the moderate use on't dare
To make, then if it consicrated were:
Thou mak'st no other use of all thy gold,
Then men do of their pictures, to behold.
Do'st thou not know the use and power of coyn?
It buys bread, meat, and cloaths, (and what's more wine;)
With all those necessary things beside,
Without which Nature cannot be suppli'd.
[tr. A. B.; ed. Brome (1666)]

Thou watchest o'er thy heaps, yet 'midst thy store
Thou'rt almost starv'd for Want, and still art poor:
You fear to touch as if You rob'd a Saint,
And use no more than if 'twere Gold in paint:
You only know how Wealth may be abus'd,
Not what 'tis good for, how it can be us'd;
'Twill buy Thee Bread, 'twill buy Thee Herbs, and
What ever Nature's Luxury can grant.
[tr. Creech (1684)]

Of thee the tale is told,
With open mouth when dozing o'er your gold.
On every side the numerous bags are pil'd,
Whose hallow'd stores must never be defil'd
To human use ; while you transported gaze,
As if, like pictures, they were form'd to please.
Would you the real use of riches know?
Bread, herbs, and wine are all they can bestow:
Or add, what nature's deepest wants supplies;
This, and no more, thy mass of money buys.
[tr. Francis (1747)]

O'er countless heaps in nicest order stored
You pore agape, and gaze upon the hoard,
As relicks to be laid with reverence by,
Or pictures only meant to please the eye.
With all your cash, you seem not yet to know
Its proper use, or what it can bestow!
"'Twill buy me herbs, a loaf, a pint of wine, --
All, which denied her, nature would repine."
[tr. Howes (1845)]

You sleep upon your bags, heaped up on every side, gaping over them, and are obliged to abstain from them, as if they were consecrated things, or to amuse yourself with them as you would with pictures. Are you ignorant of what value money has, what use it can afford? Bread, herbs, a bottle of wine may be purchased; to which [necessaries], add [such others], as, being withheld, human nature would be uneasy with itself.
[tr. Smart/Buckley (1853)]

You sleepless gloat o'er bags of money gained from every source, and yet you're forced to touch them not as though tabooed, or else you feel but such delight in them as painting gives the sense. Pray don't you know the good of money to you, or the use it is? You may buy bread and herbs, your pint of wine, and more, all else, which if our nature lacked, it would feel pain.
[tr. Millington (1870)]

Of you the tale is told:
You sleep, mouth open, on your hoarded gold;
Gold that you treat as sacred, dare not use,
In fact, that charms you as a picture does.
Come, will you hear what wealth can fairly do?
'Twill buy you bread, and vegetables too,
And wine, a good pint measure: add to this
Such needful things as flesh and blood would miss.
[tr. Conington (1874)]

You sleep with open mouth on money-bags piled up from all sides, and must perforce keep hands off as if they were hallowed, or take delight in them as if painted pictures. Don't you know what money is for, what end it serves? You may buy bread, greens, a measure of wine, and such other things as would mean pain to our human nature, if withheld.
[tr. Fairclough (Loeb) (1926)]

You sleep on the sacks
Of money you've scraped up and raked in from everywhere
And, gazing with greed, are still forced to keep your hands off,
As if they were sacred or simply pictures to look at.
Don't you know what money can do, or just why we want it?
It's to buy bread and greens and a pint of wine
And the things that we, being human, can't do without.
[tr. Palmer Bovie (1959)]

You have money bags amassed from everywhere,
just to sleep and gasp upon. To you they're sacred,
or they're works of art, to be enjoyed only with the eyes.
Don't you know the value of money, what it's used for?
It buys bread, vegetables, a pint of wine and whatever else
a human being needs to survive and not to suffer.
[tr. Fuchs (1977)]

You sleep with open mouth
on sacks accumulated from everywhere
and are constrained to worship them as sacred things,
or rejoice in them as if they were painted tablets.
Do you not know what money serves for?
How it's to be used? to buy bread, vegetables,
a sixth of wine, other things deprived of which
human nature suffers.
[tr. Alexander (1999)]

You sleep open-mouthed on a mound of money
bags but won't touch them; you just stare at them
as if they were a collection of paintings.
What's money for? What can it do? Why not
buy bread, vegetables, what you think's wine enough?
Don't you want what it harms us not to have?
[tr. Matthews (2002)]

You scrape your money-bags together and fall asleep
on top of them with your mouth agape. They must remain unused
like sacred objects, giving no more pleasure than if painted on canvas.
Do you not realize what money is for, what enjoyment it gives?
You can buy bread and vegetables, half a litre of wine,
and the other things which human life can't do without.
[tr. Rudd (2005 ed.)]

... covetously sleeping on money-bags
Piled around, forced to protect them like sacred objects,
And take pleasure in them as if they were only paintings.
Don’t you know the value of money, what end it serves?
Buy bread with it, cabbages, a pint of wine: all the rest,
Things where denying them us harms our essential nature.
[tr. Kline (2015)]