The great ruff drooped brown and dank upon his shoulders.

The gay shirt and doublet hung like grey sackcloth on his limbs.

His shoes flapped in fragments about his feet, and the empty scabbard at his belt swung like the shreds of a worn rope between his legs.
He was a sorry spectacle in truth, and but for his unchanged speech I might have looked at him long ere I knew him.
"I am come," said he, when I had greeted him and bidden him sit and rest, "like a dove from the ends of the earth, yet with not so much as an olive leaf to fill my mouth withal.

My Hollander, even the poet, friend of the immortals, can eat.

Even the honey on Mount Athos satisfieth not; and nectar leaveth its void.