This prelude to the gods. As for thy words
Of friendly welcome, I return thy greeting,
And as your thought, so mine; for few are gifted
With such rich store of love, to see a friend
Preferred and feel no envy; ’tis a disease
Possessing mortal men, a poison lodged
Close by the heart, eating all joy away
With double barb—has own mischance who suffers
And bliss of others sitting at his gate,
Which when he sees he groans. I know it well;