_Chārudatta._ Ah, it is my constant friend Maitreya. You are very welcome, my friend. Pray be seated. _Maitreya._ Thank you. [_He seats himself._] Well, comrade, here is a jasmine-scented cloak which your good friend Jūrnavriddha has sent. He bade me give it you as soon as you had finished your devotions. [_He presents the cloak. Chārudatta takes it and remains sunk in thought._] Well, what are you thinking about? _Chārudatta._ My good friend, A candle shining through the deepest dark Is happiness that follows sorrow's strife; But after bliss when man bears sorrow's mark, His body lives a very death-in-life. 10 _Maitreya._ Well, which would you rather, be dead or be poor? _Chārudatta._ Ah, my friend, Far better death than sorrows sure and slow; Some passing suffering from death may flow, But poverty brings never-ending woe. 11 _Maitreya._ My dear friend, be not thus cast down. Your wealth has been conveyed to them you love, and like the moon, after she has yielded her nectar to the gods, your waning fortunes win an added charm. _Chārudatta._ Comrade, I do not grieve for my ruined fortunes. But This is my sorrow. They whom I Would greet as guests, now pass me by. "This is a poor man's house," they cry. As flitting bees, the season o'er, Desert the elephant, whose store Of ichor[30] spent, attracts no more. 12 _Maitreya._ Oh, confound the money! It is a trifle not worth thinking about. It is like a cattle-boy in the woods afraid of wasps; it doesn't stay anywhere where it is used for food. [8.5. S. _Chārud._ Believe me, friend. My sorrow does not spring From simple loss of gold; For fortune is a fickle, changing thing, Whose favors do not hold; But he whose sometime wealth has taken wing, Finds bosom-friends grow cold. 13 Then too: A poor man is a man ashamed; from shame Springs want of dignity and worthy fame; Such want gives rise to insults hard to bear; Thence comes despondency; and thence, despair; Despair breeds folly; death is folly's fruit-- Ah! the lack of money is all evils root! 14 _Maitreya._ But just remember what a trifle money is, after all, and be more cheerful. _Chārudatta._ My friend, the poverty of a man is to him A home of cares, a shame that haunts the mind, Another form of warfare with mankind; The abhorrence of his friends, a source of hate From strangers, and from each once-loving mate; But if his wife despise him, then 't were meet In some lone wood to seek a safe retreat. The flame of sorrow, torturing his soul, Burns fiercely, yet contrives to leave him whole. 15 Comrade, I have made my offering to the divinities of the house. Do you too go and offer sacrifice to the Divine Mothers at a place where four roads meet. _Maitreya._ No!