The aged man that coffers up his gold Is plagu’d with cramps and gouts and painful fits, And scarce hath eyes his treasure to behold, But like still-pining Tantalus he sits, And useless barns the harvest of his wits; Having no other pleasure of his gain But torment that it cannot cure his pain. So then he hath it when he cannot use it, And leaves it to be mast’red by his young, Who in their pride do presently abuse it; Their father was too weak, and they too strong, To hold their cursed-blessed fortune long. The sweets we wish for turn to loathed sours Even in the moment that we call them
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