Horace (Quintus Horatius Flaccus) - 2.3.6. lyrics

“The ‘pauper' Opimius, who with his hoard of silver, And gold, still drank coarse wine from Veii on holidays Out of a cheap Campanian scoop, sour wine otherwise, Once fell into a coma so deep that his joyful heir Was already prancing around his coffers, rattling The keys. But his faithful and quick-witted doctor Revived him like this: he ordered a table be brought And bags of coins poured out, and a crowd of people To count them. That woke the patient, to whom he says: ‘If you don't guard it, your greedy heir will possess it.' ‘While I'm alive?' ‘If you'd live, then stir. Come on.' ‘What must I do?' ‘You're weak, your system will fail, Unless you take food, strong nourishment for your belly. Do you waver? Come, take a sip of this tisane with rice.' ‘What's it cost?' ‘A trifle.' ‘What trifle' ‘Eight-pence or so.' ‘Aaah! What difference if I die from sickness or theft!' ‘So who is sane?' Whoever's no fool. ‘And the miser?' A fool and insane. ‘So whoever's no miser is Necessarily sane?' Not so. ‘Why, my good Stoic?' I'll tell you. Suppose Craterus had said the patient Wasn't dyspeptic: so then is he well enough to get up? He'd say no, his lungs and kidneys are badly infected. Here's a man who's no liar or miser: fine, let him offer A pig to his kindly Lares: he's still bold, ambitious: Let him sail for Anticyra, then! What difference If sink your wealth in the deep, or never use it?”