I do not know his grace the Duke,
  Outside whose gilded gate there died
Of want a feeble, poor old man,
  With but his shadow at his side.

I do not know his Lady fair,
  Who in a bath of milk doth lie;
More milk than could feed fifty babes,
  That for the want of it must die.

But well I know the mother poor,
  Three pounds of flesh wrapped in her shawl:
A puny babe that, stripped at home,
  Looks like a rabbit skinned, so small.

And well I know the homeless waif,
  Fed by the poorest of the poor;
Since I have seen that child alone,
  Crying against a bolted door.