O womb, O belly, stinking is thy cod, 3566 Full fill’d of dung and of corruptioún; At either end of thee foul is the soun’. How great laboúr and cost is thee to find! 3567 These cookës how they stamp, and strain, and grind, And turnë substance into accident, To fúlfil all thy likerous talent! Out of the hardë bonës knockë they The marrow, for they castë naught away That may go through the gullet soft and swoot 3568 Of spicery and leaves, of bark and root, Shall be his sauce y-maked by delight, To make him have a newer appetite. But, certes, he that haunteth such delices Is dead while that he liveth in those vices.