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72
SON. 111
O, for my sake do you with fortune chide
The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds,
That did not better for my life provide
Than public means which public manners breeds
Thence comes it that my nåme receives a brand,
And almost thence my nature is subdued
To what it works in, like the hand:
Pity me then and wish I were renew’d;
Whilst, like a willing patient, I will drink
Potions of eisel ’gainst my strong infection;
No bitterness that I will bitter think,
Nor double penance, to correct correction.
Pity me then, dear friend, and I assure ye
Even that your pity is enough to cure me.
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