"Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are,That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,/How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,/Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you/From seasons such as these? O, I have ta'en/Too little care of this! Take physic, pomp;/Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,/That thou mayst shake the superflux to them/And show the heavens more just./ Edg. [within] Fathom and half, fathom and half! Poor Tom!"
"I' th' last night's storm I such a fellow saw,/Which made me think a man a worm. My son/Came then into my mind, and yet my mind/Was then scarce friends with him. I have heard more since./As flies to wanton boys are we to th' gods."