What am I that wanting, both handes feete and head,
Of all them that see me, being deemed for dead.
Of breath haue great store, and moue too and fro,
Now vp, and now downe, now hye, and now low?
Alas what hard fortune doth to mee befall:
That guiltlesse am spited of great and of small.
They strike me, and push mee, South, West, North & East:
Yet doe I no harme to most, neither least.
When as my breath fayling, I can doe no more,
They then giue mee ouer, and neuer before.