Being but a poor artificer of Smyrna,
Where many years I wrought, and ye shall see
Not without skill, in silver and in gold.
But happiness hath wrecked me, and I say
’Tis ill to marry young; for from that joy
I gat a son, who as the time went on,
Grew to be old and gray and wise as I;
And bettering much the art which I had taught him
Longed to be master in my place, for which
He grew unkind, and his sons hated me: