I fear (at the last) we shall be Beggars all.
Our Tradesmen miscarry in all their affayrs
And few men grow wealthy, but Courtiers and Players.
A Craver my father,
A Maunder my mother,
A Filer my sister, a Filcher my brother,
A Canter my Unckle,
That cared not for Pelfe,
A Lifter my aunt, a Beggar myselfe.
In white wheaten straw, when their bellies were full,