Then why, you demand, are you dressed so shabbily? For that very reason;
love or art never yet made anyone rich."

The trader trusts his fortune to the sea and takes his gains,
The warrior, for his deeds, is girt with gold;
The wily sycophant lies drunk on purple counterpanes,
Young wives must pay debauchees or they're cold.
But solitary, shivering, in tatters Genius stands
Invoking a neglected art, for succor at its hands.




CHAPTER THE EIGHTY-FOURTH.

"It is certainly true that a man is hated when he declares himself an
enemy to all vice, and begins to follow the right road in life, because,
in the first place, his habits are different from those of other people;
for who ever approved of anything to which he took exceptions? Then,
they whose only ambition is to pile up riches, don't want to believe that
men can possess anything better than that which they have themselves;
therefore, they use every means in their power to so buffet the lovers
of literature that they will seem in their proper place--below the
moneybags." "I know not why it should be so," (I said with a sigh), "but
Poverty is the sister of Genius." ("You have good reason," the old man
replied, "to deplore the status of men of letters." "No," I answered,
"that was not the reason for my sigh, there is another and far weightier
cause for my grief." Then, in accordance with the human propensity of
pouring one's personal troubles into another's ears, I explained my
misfortune to him, and dwelt particularly upon Ascyltos' perfidy.) "Oh