Now may he al day digge and wrote,[114]
Er he finde his fille of rote;
In somer he liveth bi wild frut,
And berren, bot gode lite;
In winter may he no thing finde,
Bot rote, grases, and the rinde;
Al his bodi was oway dwine
For missays, and al to chine,[115]
Lord! who may telle the sore
This king sufferd ten yere and more: