flaming curse of Zarathustra's wrath. 2 This fame, which all the wide world loves, I touch with gloves, And scorning beat Beneath my feet. * * * * Who hanker after the pay of it? Who cast themselves in the way of it? These prostitutes to gold, These merchant folk. They fold Their unctuous palms over the jingling fame, Whose ringing chink wins all the world's acclaim. * * * * Hast thou the lust to buy? It needs no skill. They are all venal. Let thy purse be deep, And let their greedy paws unhindered creep Into its depths. So let them take their fill, For if thou dost not offer them enough, Their "virtue" they'll parade, to hide their huff. * * * * They are all
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