ous; and so will all men—as soon as virtue and honesty become the only introduction to Wealth—be very sure to practise them. Poverty continues to argue the point in the presence of the Chorus of rustic neighbours, who now come on the stage, and naturally take a very warm interest in the question. She contends that were it not for the stimulus which she continually applies, the work of the world would stand still. No man would learn or exercise any trade or calling. There would be neither smith, nor shipwright, nor tailor, nor shoemaker, nor wheelwright—nay, there would be none either to plough or sow, if all alike were rich. "Nonsense," interposes Chremylus, "the slaves would do it." But there would be no slaves, the goddess reminds him, if there were no Poverty. It is Wealth, on the other hand, that gives men the gout, makes them corpulent and thick-legged, wheezy and pursy; "while I," says Poverty, "make them strong and wiry, with waists like wasps—ay, and with stings for their enemies.""Look at your popular leaders" (for the satirist never spares the demagogues)—"so long as they continue poor, they are honest enough; but when once they have grown rich at the public expense, they betray the public interest." Chremylus confesses that here, at least, she speaks no more than the truth. But if such are the advantages which Poverty brings, he has a very natural (question to ask—
How comes it then that all men flee thy face?
Pov. Because I make men better.
But her pleading is in vain. "Away with your
