Malè parta malè dilabuntur
An userer, whose Idol was his goulde,
Within his house, a peevishe ape retain'd:
A servaunt fitte, for suche a miser oulde,
Of whome both mockes, and apishe mowes, he gain'd.
Thus, everie daie he made his master sporte,
And to his clogge, was chained in the courte.
At lengthe it hap'd? while greedie graundsir din'de?
The ape got loose, and founde a windowe ope:
Where in he leap'de, and all about did finde,
The GOD, wherein the Miser put his hope?
Which soone he broch'd, and forthe with speede did flinge,
And did delighte on stones to heare it ringe?
The sighte, righte well the passers by did please,
Who did rejoyce to finde these goulden crommes:
That all their life, their povertie did ease.
Of goodes ill got, loe heere the fruicte that commes.
Looke hereuppon, you that have MIDAS minte,
And bee posseste with hartes as harde as flinte.
Shut windowes close, leste apes doe enter in,
And doe disperse your goulde, you doe adore.
But woulde you learne to keepe, that you do winne?
Then get it well, and hourde it not in store.
If not: no boultes, nor brasen barres will serve,
For GOD will waste your stocke, and make your sterve.