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Two of a thousand things are disallow'd: A lying rich man, and a poor man proud.

Help me! help me! now I call To my pretty witchcrafts all; Old I am, and cannot do That I was accustomed to. Bring your magics, spells, and charms, To enflesh my thighs and arms. Is there no way to beget In my limbs their former heat? Æson had, as poets feign, Baths that made him young again: Find that medicine, if you can, For your dry decrepit man Who would fain his strength renew, Were it but to pleasure you.

Æson, rejuvenated by Medea; see Ovid, Met. vii.

Come bring your sampler, and with art Draw in't a wounded heart And dropping here and there: Not that I think that any dart Can make yours bleed a tear, Or pierce it anywhere; Yet do it to this end: that I May by