“The ‘pauper' Opimius, who with his hoard of silver,
And gold, still drank coarse wine from Veii on holidays
Out of a cheap Campanian scoop, sour wine otherwise,
Once fell into a coma so deep that his joyful heir
Was already prancing around his coffers, rattling
The keys. But his faithful and quick-witted doctor
Revived him like this: he ordered a table be brought
And bags of coins poured out, and a crowd of people
To count them. That woke the patient, to whom he says:
‘If you don't guard it, your greedy heir will possess it.'
‘While I'm alive?' ‘If you'd live, then stir. Come on.'
‘What must I do?' ‘You're weak, your system will fail,
Unless you take food, strong nourishment for your belly.
Do you waver? Come, take a sip of this tisane with rice.'
‘What's it cost?' ‘A trifle.' ‘What trifle' ‘Eight-pence or so.'
‘Aaah! What difference if I die from sickness or theft!'
‘So who is sane?' Whoever's no fool. ‘And the miser?'
A fool and insane. ‘So whoever's no miser is
Necessarily sane?' Not so. ‘Why, my good Stoic?'
I'll tell you. Suppose Craterus had said the patient
Wasn't dyspeptic: so then is he well enough to get up?
He'd say no, his lungs and kidneys are badly infected.
Here's a man who's no liar or miser: fine, let him offer
A pig to his kindly Lares: he's still bold, ambitious:
Let him sail for Anticyra, then! What difference
If sink your wealth in the deep, or never use it?”