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To KALA.
Sore is my head and sorie is my hart,
And yet for all th'emplasters I applie,
No helpe hath Nature, nor no ayde brings Art,
Without, within, I burne, I fret, I frie:
A childish thing when Care doth come to crie:
Yet this doth most my Feuer fell infect,
I hid my harms, and so in silence die,
And thus my head must riue, my hart must breake,
But worst of all, while visage wan bewray,
What secret site my sicke soule doth assale,
How I or'edriue in deadly dooll the day,
And how this longsome Equinoct I vale:
Shee cruell shee that should my Surgeon bee,
Allow's my losse, and laughs, and lets me die.
Nec tamen vlla mea tangit te cura salutis.