Like sooty imp, by sharp posterior pain,
From bloody twig, and eke that Indian cane,
Wherein, alas! no sugar'd juices dwell,
For this, the while one stripling's sluices drain,
Another weepeth over chilblains fell,
Always upon the heel, yet never to be well!
XVIII.
Anon a third, for his delicious root,
Late ravish'd from his tooth by elder chit,
So soon is human violence afoot,