Bkii:Xviii Vain Riches

There’s no ivory, there’s no gilded panelling, gleaming here in my house, no beams of Hymettian marble rest on pillars quarried in deepest Africa, I’ve not, as heir to Attalus, become unwitting owner of some palace, no noble ladies trail robes of Spartan purple for me. But I’ve honour, and a vein of kindly wit, and though I’m poor the rich man seeks me out: I don’t demand anything more of the gods, or my powerful friend, I’m contented enough blessed with my one and only Sabine Farm. Day treads on the heels of day, and new moons still continue to wane away. Yet you contract on the edge of the grave itself for cut marble, forget the tomb and raise a palace, pushing hard to extend the shore of Baiae’s roaring seas, not rich enough in mainland coast. What’s the point of tearing down every neighbouring boundary edging your fields, leaping over, in your greed, the limits of your tenants? Both the husband and wife, and their miserable children, are driven out, and they’re left clutching their household gods to their breast. Yet there’s no royal courtyard that more surely waits for a wealthy owner, than greedy Orcus’ fateful limits. Why stretch for more? Earth’s equally open to the poorest of men and the sons of kings: and Orcus’s ferryman couldn’t be seduced by gold to row back and return crafty Prometheus. Proud Tantalus, and Pelops his son, he holds fast, and whether he’s summoned, or whether he’s not, he lends an ear, and frees the poor man, his labours done.