Classic Poem

Whenever he observes me purchasing
A slave, a cloak, or any such like thing,
Sextus the usurer—a man, you know,
Who's been my friend for twenty years or so—
In fear that I may ask him for a loan,
Thus whispers, to himself, but in a tone
Such as he knows I cannot choose but hear:
“I owe Secundus twenty thousand clear,
I owe Philetus thirty thousand more,
And then there's Phœbus—that's another four—
Besides, there's interest due on each amount,
And not one farthing on my bank account!”
Oh stratagem profound of my old friend!
'Tis hard refusing when you're asked to lend;
But to refuse before you're asked displays
Inventive genius worthy of the bays!