I turned aside to weep; I lost him a little while:
I looked, and years had past; he was hoar with the winter of his age.
And what was now his hope? where was the balm for his sadness?
The memory of the past was guilt: the feeling of the present, remorse.
Then he set his affections on gold, he worshipped the shrine of Mammon,
And to lay richer gifts before his idol, he starved his own bowels;
So, the youth spent in profligacy ended in the gripings of want:
The miser grudged himself husks to take deeper vengeance of the prodigal.
And I said, this is Sorrow, but pity cannot reach it;
This is to be wretched indeed, to be guilty without repentance.