Page 2301 - Shakespeare - Vol. 4

Coming from thee I could not put him back,
For it had been dishonour to disdain him.
Besides, of weariness he did complain him, [845]
And talk’d of virtue: O unlook’d-for evil,

When virtue is profan’d in such a devil!

«Why should the worm intrude the maiden bud,
Or hateful cuckoos hatch in sparrows’ nests?
Or toads infect fair founts with venom mud, [850]

Or tyrant folly lurk in gentle breasts?
Or kings be breakers of their own behests?
But no perfection is so absolute
That some impurity doth not pollute.

«The aged man that coffers up his gold [855]

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 [860]

But torment that it cannot cure his pain.

«So then he hath it when he cannot use it,
And leaves it to be master’d by his young,
Who in their pride do presently abuse it;

Their father was too weak, and they too strong, [865]
To hold their cursed-blessed fortune long:
The sweets we wish for turn to loathed sours
Even in the moment that we call them ours.

«Unruly blasts wait on the tender spring;

Unwholesome weeds take root with precious flowers; [870]
The adder hisses where the sweet birds sing;
What virtue breeds iniquity devours.
We have no good that we can say is ours,

But ill-annexed opportunity
Or kills his life, or else his quality. [875]