Answer this, too, Tiresias, add to what you’ve told me:
By what methods and arts can I hope to recover
My lost fortune? Why do you laugh? ‘So it’s not enough
For the man of cunning to sail home to Ithaca,
And gaze on his household gods?’ O you, who never lie
To any man, see how I return, naked and needy,
As you foretold, to stores and herds stripped by the Suitors:
Birth and ability are less than sea-wrack, without wealth.
‘Since, not to beat about the bush, then, you dread poverty,
Hear a way by which you can grow rich. If a thrush
Or something is given you for your own, let it fly
To where a great fortune gleams, to an old master:
Let some rich man taste your sweetest apples
Or whatever tributes your tidy farm bears you,
Before your Lar does, he’s worthier of your respect.
However great a liar he is, of no family, stained
By a brother’s blood, or a runaway, don’t refuse
If he asks you to go for a walk, take the outside.’
What, walk with some filthy slave? Not thus did I show
Myself at Troy, matched always with my betters. ‘Then,
It’s poor you’ll be.’ I can command my noble spirit
To bear it, I’ve suffered worse. Tell me, now, Prophet,
Though, how I can root out wealth and piles of money.