And either hurt or slain.
Will Fame her pity on thee pour
When all thy bones are broken?
Yon Sloe, suppose you think it sour
May satisfy to slocken;
O youth, now, the drouth now,
Which dries thee with desire.
Assuage then, the rage then,
Foul water quenches fire.
XXVII.
What is the way to heal thy hurt?
What is the way to stay thy sturt?
What means may make thee merry?
What is the comfort that you crave,
Suppose these Sophists thee deceive,
Thou knowest it is the Cherry;
Since for it only then thou thrist,
The Sloe can be no boot,
In it alone thy hopes consist,
And in no other fruit.
Why quakest thou and shakest thou,
Astonish’d at our strife,
Advise thee, it lies thee.
On no less than thy life,
XXVIII.
If we two hold not up thy heart.
Which is the chief and nobler part.
It were not for thy weal,
Considering those companions can
Dissuade a silly simple man,
To hazard for his heal;
Although they have deceived some,
Ere they and we did meet,
They get no credit where we come,
With any man of sp’rit.
By reason their treason,
By us is plain espy’d,
Revealing their dealing,
Which dare not be deny’d.
