The thief of mind, the soil of doubts,
The treasury of fears,
Concreted meanness, home of woe,
And haughty honor's knell,
A form of death—to self-esteem
No different from hell.
And again:
A beggar is a man of shame,
Who bids farewell to honor's name;
From this, humiliations grow,
Then melancholy's gloomy woe;
But gloom with sadness dims the sense,
And sad men lack intelligence;
Now death is folly's certain fruit—
Thus, money's lack is evil's root.
And once again:
Thrust your hands between the jaws
Of an angry snake;
Slumber in the house of Death;
Poisoned liquor take;
Dash yourself to pieces down
Himalaya's side:
Do not feast on riches wrung
From a villain's pride.
To sum it up:
Feed your body to the flames,
Friend, if you are needy;
Do not cringe to beg a dole
From the selfish-greedy.
Better roam in forest wilds
With the beasts of prey
Than, by whimpering for gifts,
Baseness to betray.
