His withred fist still knocking at Death’s dore,
Fumbling, and driueling, as hee drawes his breath,[1541]
For briefe, the shape and messenger of Death.
49.
And fast by him pale Malady was plaste,
Sore sicke in bed, her coulour all foregone,
Bereft of stomacke, sauour, and of taste,
Ne could shee brooke no meate, but broths alone:
Her breath corrupt, her kepers euery one
Abhorring her, her sicknes past recure,