1. Do you know, O men of literature, that my hands have written nothing but satire on the pages except the blame of stinginess?
I have never praised a miser that I remember, neither out of fear of him nor out of desire for honor.

2. And the one I meant is not hidden from you, who associated with the vile, not in secret.
So he went listening to what he does not know, and cannot distinguish between gems and shells.

3. My poetry and prose are the same to his discernment, yet poetry and prose are two different things.
My reward was deprivation and sorrow, and I left in disappointed hope.

4. So I was told he is a bull, and I said to them, in form and understanding, not in generosity and nobility.
By God, if they recited poetry to a bull over fodder, my poetry would make the bull charge me for the fodder.