Septitius ritche, a miser moste of all,
Whose livinges large, and treasure did exceede:
Yet to his goodes, he was so much in thrall,
That still he usd on beetes, and rapes to feede:
So of his stoare, the sweete he never knewe,
And longe did robbe, his bellie of his due.
This Caitiffe wretche, with pined corpes lo heare,
Compared right unto the foolishe asse,
Whose backe is fraighte with cates, and daintie cheare,
But to his share commes neither corne, nor grasse,
Yet beares he that, which settes his teeth on edge:
And pines him selfe, with thistle and with sedge.