Who I Know

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.