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hound by eating grass doth find relief,

For being sick it is his choicest meat;

The wounded hart doth ease his pain and grief

If he the herb dictamion may eat;

The loathsome snake renews his sight again,

When he casts off his withered coat and hue;

The sky-bred eagle fresh age doth obtain

When he his beak decayed doth renew.

I worse than these whose sore no salve can cure,

Whose grief no herb nor plant nor tree can ease;

Remediless, I still must pain endure,

Till I my Chloris' furious mood can please;

She like the scorpion gave to me a wound,

And like the scorpion she must make me sound.