Poverty.
The sad estate of Poverty
Last Poverty, of whom I vouch,
No penny lay within her pouch,
And buy a rope to hang herself.
Naked as any wretched worm,
She oft, in direful winter’s term,450
Nigh dies with misery and cold.
Nought else her body did enfold
Except a sack, from whence hung torn
Foul rags, for robe and mantle worn;
Therewith alone did she dissemble
Her nakedness, her limbs a-tremble,
Down in a corner, on the ground
Couched, like a beaten, shamefaced hound.
Alas! a dolorous fate hath she,
Cast out from all men’s company.460
Accursed the hour when man is born
To live in poverty forlorn:
Far better had he never been
Than naked, houseless, friendless seen.
Before these images I stayed
Some space; each one was well arrayed
In dazzling gold and azure bright.
By skilful limner deftly dight.
The wall was high, and built of hard
Rough stone, close shut, and strongly barred,470
Enclosing round a garden vast.
Wherein no swain had ever passed;
Beyond all doubt a place most fair.
And I most gladly entry there
