O good old man, how well in thee appears
The constant service of the antique world,
When service sweat
for duty, not for meed!
Thou art not for the fashion of these times,
Where none will sweat but for promotion,
having that, do choke their service up
Even with the having: it is not so with thee.
But, poor old man, thou
prunest a rotten tree,
That cannot so much as a blossom yield
In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry
come thy ways; well go along together,
And ere we have thy youthful wages spent,
We'll light upon some
settled low content.
Master, go on, and I will follow thee,
To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty.
From seventeen years till
now almost fourscore
Here lived I, but now live here no more.
At seventeen years many their fortunes
But at fourscore it is too late a week:
Yet fortune cannot recompense me better
Than to die well and
not my master's debtor.
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