No coat or bed, however foul, you own,
No mat of reeds, although a cheap and hard one,
No slave or young or old, no child or crone,
No cup, no bolt, no door, no dog, to guard one.

Yet you pretend—an idle stratagem—
That you are poor, ah, vain, self-flattering fancy!
Many are poor; you cannot rank with them,
Yours is not poverty but mendicancy.