Chārud. Believe me, friend. My sorrow does not spring
From simple loss of gold;
For fortune is a fickle, changing thing,
Whose favors do not hold;
But he whose sometime wealth has taken wing,
Finds bosom-friends grow cold. 13
Then too:
A poor man is a man ashamed; from shame
Springs want of dignity and worthy fame;
Such want gives rise to insults hard to bear;
Thence comes despondency; and thence, despair;
Despair breeds folly; death is folly's fruit.—
Ah! the lack of money is all evil's root! 14
Maitreya. But just remember what a trifle money is, after all, and be more cheerful.
Chārudatta. My friend, the poverty of a man is to him
A home of cares, a shame that haunts the mind,
Another form of warfare with mankind;
The abhorrence of his friends, a source of hate
From strangers, and from each once-loving mate;
But if his wife despise him, then 't were meet
In some lone wood to seek a safe retreat.
The flame of sorrow, torturing his soul,
Burns fiercely, yet contrives to leave him whole. 15
Comrade, I have made my offering to the divinities of the house. Do you too go and offer sacrifice to the Divine Mothers at a place where four roads meet.
Maitreya. No!
Chārudatta. Why not?
Maitreya. Because the gods are not gracious to you even when thus honored. So what is the use of worshiping?
Chārudatta. Not so, my friend, not so! This is the constant duty of a householder.
