Now who of all that dwell beneath the gray dawn, say who, will open his door to receive my pretty Graces gladly,
and not rather send them away empty-handed, so that they get them home frowning and barefoot,
there to fleer at me for sending them a fool's errand, there to shrink once again into the bottom of an empty press,
and sinking their heads upon their chill knees to abide where they ever lodge when they return unsuccessful from abroad?
Who, I say, in this present world will let them in, and who in the present days will love one that hath spoke him well? I cannot tell.
The praise once sought for noble acts is sought no more; lucre reigns conqueror of every heart; and every man looks hand in pocket where he may get him silver;
Poor simple fools! what profits it a man that he have thousands of gold laid by?
To the wise the enjoyment of riches is not that, but rather to give first somewhat to his own soul, and then something, methinks, to one of the poets;