Fie, fie on all tired jades, on all mad masters

Fie, fie on all tired jades, on all mad masters,
and all foul ways! Was ever man so beaten? Was
ever man so ’rayed? Was ever man so weary? I am
sent before to make a fire, and they are coming
after to warm them. Now were not I a little pot and
soon hot, my very lips might freeze to my teeth, my
tongue to the roof of my mouth, my heart in my
belly, ere I should come by a fire to thaw me. But I
with blowing the fire shall warm myself. For, considering
the weather, a taller man than I will take cold.