What a lover you are of gold and wealth, Mikyllos. Do you admire this one thing of all others, and think it is happiness to have quantities of gold?

I am not alone in my opinion, Pythagoras. You yourself, when you were Euphorbos, decked your locks with gold and silver when you went to fight the Achaians, actually in battle, where it was a better plan to carry iron than gold; but even there you thought you must wreathe your hair with gold before you fought. And in my judgment that is why Homer said your hair was like the Graces, because "it was tightly bound with gold and with silver." For it is plain that it looked much more goodly and delightful when it was braided with the gold and vied with it in splendor. Still it does not make much difference, Goldlocks, whether you, who were only Panthoos's son, honored gold or not. But the father of all men and gods, the son of Kronos and Rhea, when he fell in love with that Argolian girl, knew no lovelier form to assume, and no better way to break through the guard of Akrisios-you know, of course, that he turned into gold, and poured through the roof to be with his beloved. So why should I go on to tell you anything more about it, saying how many wants gold fills, and how it makes its owners handsome and clever and powerful, adds glory and reputation to them, and sometimes brings them in a twinkling from obscurity and contempt to prominence and fame.

Now, you know my neighbor and fellow-craftsman, Simon, who dined with me not long ago; that time in the holidays when I made a bean soup with two slices of sausage in it.

I know the little snub-nosed creature. He picked up the earthen cup, the only one we had, and carried it off under his arm. I saw him, Mikyllos.

Then was he that stole it, and afterwards called so many gods to witness his innocence! But why did you not cry out and tell of him then, Cock, when you saw us being robbed?

I crowed, which was all I could do then. But what has Simon done? I thought you had something to say about him.

He had a cousin named Drimylos, who was enormously rich. While he was living he never gave Simon a cent. Why should he, who never touched his money himself? But he died the other day, and all his property has come by law to Simon, and now he of the dirty rags, he who used to lick his soup-plate, drives at his ease, wearing purple and scarlet, owning slaves and carriages and golden goblets and ivory tables, with the crowd bowing before him, and not so much as a glance for me any longer. At least, I saw him passing close by me and said, "How do you do, Simon?" But he flew into a rage and said, "Tell this beggar not to shorten my name. I am not called Simon, but Simonides." And what is more important, the women are in love with him already, but he is coy with them and fastidious. Some he approves and treats graciously, but others threaten to hang themselves because of his neglect. You see what good things gold can do, if it even transforms the ugly and makes them charming, as that cestus did in the poem. You know, too, what the poets say: O gold, fairest of possessions; and, For it is gold that sways mortals. But what are you laughing at in the midst of my story, Cock?