With sighs and tears still furnishing his table,
With what might make the miserable blest;
But this ungrateful, for my good desert,
Enticed my thoughts against me to conspire,
Who gave consent to steal away my heart,
And set my breast his lodging on a fire.
Well, well, my friends, when beggars grow thus bold,
No marvel then though charity grow cold.
Michael Drayton.