Seeing me morose and walking deep in thought, he knew at once, as became a god, the reason for my grief, namely that I was cross because of my poverty, having but a single cloak, not enough for the season; for it was cold with a strong north-wind, ice and snow, and I had little defence against these things; and then since the festival was almost at hand, I saw other people getting ready their sacrifices and feasts, and I had little that makes for festival-time. Well, he came up from behind, took me by the ear, and shook me (his usual way of accosting me), and said: “Why are you looking so downhearted, Cronosolon?” “Haven’t I every reason, master, when I see disgusting and filthy rogues unbelievably rich and alone leading a comfortable life, while I and many another educated man know poverty and despair as companions? But even you, master, won’t put a stop to these things and make a more equitable arrangement.” “Generally speaking,” he said, “it’s not easy to change the lot that Clotho and the other Fates assign you, but as far as the needs of the festival go I shall set your poverty right. This is how I shall do it: go, Cronosolon, and write me laws on conduct during the festival, so that the rich may not keep private festival but share their good things with you.” “I do not know the laws,” I said. “I will instruct you,” said he, and he set to.
