Furius, you who have neither a slave, nor a coffer, nor a bug, nor a spider, nor fire, but have both a father and a step-mother whose teeth can munch up even flints,—you live finely with your father, and with your father's wooden spouse. And no wonder: for you are all in good health, finely you digest, you fear nothing, not arson, not the fall of your house, not impious thefts, not plots of poison, no perilous happenings whatsoever. And you have bodies drier than horn (or if there is anything more arid still, parched by sun, frost, and famine. So why is it not happy and well with you? Sweat is a stranger to you, absent also are saliva, phlegm, and evil nose-snot. Add to this cleanliness the thing that's still more cleanly, that your backside is purer than a salt-cellar, nor do you crap ten times in the whole year, and then it is harder than beans and pebbles; and if you rub and crumble it in your hands, you can't ever dirty a finger. Spurn not hese goodly gifts and favours, Furius, nor think lightly of them; and stop always begging for a hundred sesterces: for you are happy enough!