Once there lived a rich man who was justly proud of his cellar and the wine therein. And there was one jug of ancient vintage kept for some occasion known only to himself.
The governor of the state visited him, and he bethought him and said, “That jug shall not be opened for a mere governor.”
And a bishop of the diocese visited him, but he said to himself, “Nay, I will not open that jug. He would not know its value, nor would its aroma reach his nostrils.”
The prince of the realm came and supped with him. But he thought, “It is too royal a wine for a mere princeling.”
And even on the day when his own nephew was married, he said to himself, “No, not to these guests shall that jug be brought forth.”
And the years passed by, and he died, an old man, and he was buried like unto every seed and acorn.
And upon the day that he was buried the ancient jug was brought out together with other jugs of wine, and it was shared by the peasants of the neighbourhood. And none knew its great age.
To them, all that is poured into a cup is only wine.