As a tree heavily laden with fruit breaks its own boughs, they ruin themselves by their own greatness. Joachim Camerarius has elegantly expressed this in emblem 13 of his first century: “Its abundance made it poor.” Their means are their misery. Though they adapt themselves to the times, lie, dissemble, cajole and flatter their sovereign, obeying and supporting his will and commands as far as possible, all too often they come to grief. They fatten themselves like so many hogs, as Aeneas Sylvius observes, so that, once well fed, they may be devoured by their princes, as Nero dealt with Seneca, Tiberius with Sejanus, and Ahasuerus with Haman.

I conclude with Gregory: “Power at the summit is a tempest of the mind; and the higher the dignity, the heavier the fall.” Honour is a tempest: the higher they are raised, the more grievously they are cast down.

As for the other advantages his wealth affords, the more he has, the greater his expenses. “When goods increase, so do those who consume them; and what benefit do their owners receive except the sight of them?” Ecclesiastes 4:10.

Your threshing floor may have threshed a hundred thousand measures of grain; Your stomach will take no more from it than mine.

Solomon calls it “a grievous sickness,” wealth “kept by its owners to their harm,” verse 12. “Those who want to be rich fall into many fears and temptations, into many foolish and harmful desires, which drown men in destruction.” 1 Timothy 6:9. “Gold and silver have destroyed many,” Ecclesiasticus 8:2. “The riches of this world are the devil’s snares,” writes Bernard: worldly wealth is the devil’s bait. And just as the moon is always farthest from the sun when it is fullest of light, the more wealth people have, the farther they commonly are from God.

If I had said this on my own authority, rich men would have torn me to pieces. But listen to who says it, and who supports it: an apostle. Saint James therefore tells them to “weep and howl for the miseries that will come upon them”; their gold will rust and corrode, and eat their flesh like fire, James 5:1–3.

I may then confidently conclude with Theodoret, “Whenever you see someone abounding in riches,” and so on: whenever you see a man overflowing with wealth, “who drinks from jewelled cups and sleeps in Tyrian purple,” yet is wicked, I beg you not to call him happy. Reckon him unfortunate, because he has so many opportunities to live unjustly. Conversely, a poor man is not miserable if he is good, but happy precisely because those opportunities for wrongdoing have been taken from him.

You cannot rightly call a man happy for owning much; More rightly does he bear The name of happy who knows How to use the gods’ gifts wisely, How to endure harsh poverty, And fears disgrace more than death.

The happy man is not the rich man Who has the world at his command, But the man who can wisely possess And always use God’s gifts; Who suffers and patiently Endures harsh poverty, And chooses death rather Than commit such wickedness.

Where, then, does his happiness lie? What advantages does he have over other men? Or rather, what miseries, cares, and discontents does he not have in greater measure than others?

For neither treasures nor a consul’s Lictor can drive away the mind’s Miserable turmoil, or the cares that fly Around panelled ceilings.

Neither treasures nor a mayor’s officers remove The mind’s miserable turmoil, Or the cares that lie about or fly above Their lofty houses, joined with massive beams.

His wealth cannot rescue him, even if his possessions rival Job’s: “Let them be Croesuses and Crassuses; not even Pactolus, rolling its golden waters, could ever snatch them from misery.” Croesus or wealthy Crassus cannot command health or buy himself an appetite.

His Worship, as Apuleius describes him, amid all his abundance and plentiful supplies, is forbidden to eat, or else has no appetite. He lies sick in bed, unable to rest, grievously afflicted by some chronic disease brought on by rich food and ease, or troubled in mind. Meanwhile, his whole household is merry, and even his poorest servant continually feasts.

It is “happiness plated with thin metal,” as Seneca calls it: happiness covered in tinfoil, “unhappy happiness,” an unhappy kind of happiness, if it is happiness at all. His gold, his guards, the clatter of armour, and his fortifications against external enemies cannot free him from inward fears and cares.

For human fears and the cares that dog us Fear neither the clash of arms nor iron weapons; They move boldly among kings and those powerful among kings, And feel no awe before the gleam of gold.

Indeed, the fears and cares that always attend men Fear neither clashing armour nor fierce weapons. They boldly keep company with kings and their peers, Unafraid of any glittering gold.

Count his servants, and you count the enemies he suspects. In place of freedom he harbours ambition. His pleasures are no pleasures; and worst of all, he cannot live privately or enjoy his own company as other men do: his high position is a form of slavery.

A countryman may travel from kingdom to kingdom, province to province, and city to city, feast his eyes on delightful sights, hawk, hunt, and enjoy these ordinary recreations without attracting notice. A prince or great man can do none of this. He stays indoors to preserve his dignity, “lest the honour of majesty be cheapened,” as the kings of China and Borneo and the Tartar khans—those “golden slaves”—are said to do. They are seldom or never seen abroad, “so that people may hold them in greater reverence,” a practice the ancient Persian kings observed so scrupulously.

A poor man takes more pleasure in an ordinary meal, which he seldom has, than they do in all their foreign delicacies and constant supplies of food. “Infrequent use makes pleasure more welcome”: rarity and need make a thing agreeable and pleasant. Darius, put to flight by Alexander, drank muddy water to quench his thirst and swore that it tasted better than any wine or mead.