Classic Poem

The proverb goes — " Let friends together profit."
And this is your interpretation of it.
You sport a toga of Tarentine wool.
Such tufts as from the Parman flocks they pull:
Mine is so old you'd think a bull had torn it,
Or that some scarecrow in the ring had worn it.
Your Tyrian mantle's one of Cadmus own:
My poor red cloak would scarce fetch half-a-crown.
Your marble rounds on Indian ivory rest:
My table's wood and is on drain-pipes pressed.
For you huge mullets lie in golden dish:
I from red earthen plates eat red crawfish.
A troop of pages serve your every need:
I help myself and have no Ganymede.
" Profit" for you: for your poor friend " starvation."
That of the proverb's your interpretation.