Heare TANTALUS, as Poëttes doe devine,
This guerdon hathe, for his offence in hell:
The pleasante fruite, dothe to his lippe decline,
A river faire unto his chinne doth swell:
Yet, twixt these two, for foode the wretche dothe sterve,
For bothe doe flee, when they his neede shoulde serve.
The covetons man, this fable reprehendes,
For chaunge his name, and TANTALUS hee is,
Hee dothe abounde, yet sterves and nothing spendes,
But keepes his goulde, as if it weare not his:
With slender fare, he doth his hunger feede,
And dare not touche his store, when hee doth neede.