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Poem	I have almost been reduced to a homeless pauper. This fatal city, Antioch, has consumed all my money; this fatal city with its expensive life. But I am young and in excellent health. My command of Greek is superb (I know all there is about Aristotle, Plato; orators, poets, you name it.) I have an idea of military affairs, and have friends among the mercenary chiefs. I am on the inside of administration as well. Last year I spent six months in Alexandria; I have some knowledge (and this is useful) of affairs there: intentions of the Malefactor, and villainies, et cetera. Therefore I believe that I am fully qualified to serve this country, my beloved homeland Syria. In whatever capacity they place me I shall strive to be useful to the country. This is my intent. Then again, if they thwart me with their methods -- we know those able people: need we talk about it now? if they thwart me, I am not to blame. First, I shall apply to Zabinas, and if this moron does not appreciate me, I shall go to his rival Grypos. And if this idiot does not hire me, I shall go straight to Hyrcanos. One of the three will want me however. And my conscience is not troubled about not worrying about my choice. All three harm Syria equally. But, a ruined man, why is it my fault. Wretched man, I am trying to make ends meet. The almighty gods should have provided and created a fourth, good man. Gladly would I have joined him.
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