“Ah! had ye knowledge how God evermore. With agonies of soul and grievous heats, As on an anvil beats On them that in this earth hold high estate⁠— Ye would choose little rather than much store, And solitude than spacious palaces; Such is the sore disease Of anguish that on all their days doth wait. Behold if they be not unfortunate, When oft the father dares not trust the son! O wealth, with thee is won A worm to gnaw forever on his soul Whose abject life is laid in thy control!