His drinke, the running streame, his cup, the bare
Of his palme cloasde, his bed, the hard cold ground:
To this poore life was Misery ybound.
39.
Whose wretched state when wee had well beheld,
With tender ruth on him, and on his feres,
In thoughtfull cares forth then our pace wee held:
And, by and by, another shape apperes
Of greedy Care, still brushing vp the breres,
His knuckles knobde, his flesh deepe dented in,