Sing, Muse,
of that misanthrope,
who was homeless and forever wandering,
since he had yet to chop down his fig tree.

In the city he ignored the many routine evils of most men
as he strove to keep alive, with a sorrowful heart,
his fig tree and the warm pot of food for his friends.
But, hard as he tried, he could not save himself.
The fool, ruined by his own wasteful ways,
saw the amount of wealth he had squandered,
all of the cows and goats he had eaten,
while his friends were grabbing all they found
wherever they could.

Sing, Goddess,
and gracefully tell the tale again in our time.

Ἄνδρα μοι ἔννεπε, Mοῦσα, κακότροπον, ὃς μάλα πολλὰ
πλάγχθη ἄοικος, ἐπεὶ συκῆν οὔ πω κατέκοψε
πολλῶν δ’ ἀνθρώπων κακὰ ἤθεα πολλὰ κατέγνω
πολλὰ  δ’ ὅ γ’ εἰν ἄστει πάθεν ἄλγεα ὃν κατὰ θυμὸν
ἀρνύμενος ἣν μὲν συκῆν ἰδ’ ἑταίρων χύτραν
ἀλλ’ οὐδ’ ὣς αὑτόν γ’ ἐρρύσατο ἱέμενός περ
αὐτοῦ γὰρ σφετέρῃσιν ἀτασθαλίῃσιν ὄλωλε
νήπιος, ὃς κατὰ βοῦς ἰδὲ κ’ αἶγας καὶ ὃν πλοῦτον
ἤσθιε, αὐτὰρ ἑταῖροι ἀφεῖλον πάντα τὰ λοιπὰ
τῶν ἁμόθεν γε, θεά, χαριέντως εἰπὲ καὶ ἡμῖν