Where ’mongst their linking roles, I’me forc’d to wade:
Whose neckes like legs are round, their bodies strong,
With blacke-spred backes, their length full two yards long:
Yet whilst I cut, and crush their warbling wombe,
I point their death, their skin, I make their tombe.
But worst I’me hungerbit, and starving slaine
With pinching want, a sore-sunke gnawing paine:
O helplesse torture! second’d with great drouth
And fiery thirst, that scabbe my lips and mouth:
Where for fine lyquor, as my heart would wish,