And saw my fortunes not unenvied rise
Until no greater could I ask.
But what of him? In some far distant place,
Again as oft we chanced to meet.
His wealth had flown, while mine tenfold had grown,—
Foul luck had made him indiscreet.
I picked him from the gutter,—a sorry sight,
Reeling with wine, and sick and sore:
And as I passed a snug goldpiece, he said,
“Beg pard’, that I knew you not before.”