Poor naked wretches, whereso'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.