The feeble fleshe would faynt to feele so sharpe a fight,
The hart would quake to heare dame fortune’s sharpe assaults:
And I Cadwallader, a king, can make report,
That nothing may content the mind of mortall man:
The more my selfe did eate, the hungryer ay I was,
The more I dranke, the more thirst did me stil distresse,
The more I slept, the more I sluggishe did remayne,
The more I rested me, the more I wearyed was,
The more of wealth I had, the more I dyd desire,
The more I still did seeke, the lesse I aye did finde: