Unless sometime some crumbs fell to his share,
Which in his wallet long, God wot, kept be,
As on the which full daint’ly would he fare;
His drink, the running stream! his cup, the bare
Of his palm closed; his bed, the hard cold ground,
To this poor life was Misery ybound.
Sackville.
I do believe myself the creature,
Subject, and soldier, if I so may speak,
Of an Almighty Father, King and Lord;