With holy meale and cracklinge salt.
That done, thy painfull thumbe this sentence tells us,
God for our labour all thinges sells us.
Nor are thy daylye and devout affayres
Attended with those desperate cares
Th’ industriouse marchant hath, who for to finde
Gold, runneth to the furthest Inde[118],
And home againe tortur’d with fear doth hye,
Untaught to suffer povertye.
But you at home blest with securest ease,