The fattest ones are slaughtered, soon as they are seen.
The night is spent, the morn is come, my bosom friend,
When wilt thou bring thy grumbling gossip to an end?
Once thou wert young, and more content a hundredfold;
Then covetous becamest, though thyself art gold.60
A fruitful vine thou wert; a blight’s come over thee;
Thy fruit will never ripe, ’twill shrivel on the tree.
Sweet fruit, with flavour, give, thy inward worth to prove.
Thou backwards shouldst not walk, as ropemakers all move.
Thou art my helpmate fond; and fellow-workers all,