1. Myself to Cronus—Greetings!

I wrote to you earlier telling you what my position was and how my poverty made it likely that I alone should have no share in the festival which you proclaimed, adding this, I remember, that it was most unreasonable for some of us to have too much wealth and live in luxury and not share what they have with those who are poorer than they while others are dying of hunger, and that too when the festival of Cronus is near. Since you sent no reply then, I have thought it necessary to remind you of it again. You ought, my dear Cronus, to have abolished this inequality, made the good things accessible to everyone, and then bid the festival begin. As we now are it is a case of “ant or camel”, as the saying has it. i.e. there are only the very rich or the very poor. Better still, imagine a tragic actor with one foot on something high, like a tragic buskin, and let the other be unshod. Now if anyone were to walk like this you can see he would have to be up in the air at one moment and down again at the next according to whichever foot he is putting forward. Inequality in human life is the same: some put on the buskins which our producer Luck supplies and strut the human stage, but the rank and file of us go unshod on the earth below, though we could play a part and stride the boards no worse than they, you may be sure, if anyone had decked us out like them.

Indeed I hear the poets saying that things were not like that in old times when you were still lord. No, the earth produced its good things for the folk without sowing and without ploughing, an ample meal ready to each man’s hand; the rivers flowed some with wine, some with milk, and others again with honey. And, above all, they say the men themselves were gold and poverty was nowhere near. As for us, we could not even be thought of as lead, but something meaner, if such there be; and for most of us food is won with toil; and poverty, want, and helplessness, and “alas!”, and “how can I get it?”, and “oh, what bad luck!” and such exclamations are plentiful, at least among us poor.

We should be less distressed about it, you may be sure, if we did not see the rich living in such bliss, who, though they have such gold, such silver in their safes, though they have all that clothing and own slaves and carriage-horses and tenements and farms, each and all in large numbers, not only have never shared them with us, but never deign even to notice ordinary people.

This is what sticks in our throats most of all, Cronus, and we think it an intolerable thing for such a man to lie in his purple clothes and gorge himself on all these good things, belching, receiving his guest’s congratulations, and feasting without a break, while I and my sort dream where we can get four obols to be able to sleep after a fill of bread or barley, with cress or thyme or onion as a relish. So either, Cronus, change the situation and give us instead of our present lot an equal share in life, or, at the very least, bid these rich men stop their solitary enjoyment of the good things and out of all their bushels of gold throw down a measure for us all, and out of their clothing give us what would be no loss to them even if it were eaten by moths—it will be completely destroyed and ruined by time in any case—, and tell them to give it us to wear before letting it rot in their boxes and chests with mould everywhere.