If one but anoint the sword

If one but anoint the sword

If one but anoint the sword
That doth hurt it will afford
Reliefe unto the wound: why
Shall I not seeke remedy
When 'tis soe cheap? I can guive
To Phisitians to live
And not think how ofte I dye
Whilst I live in misery
Lif's but a being unless
Crouned with true happiness
Stranger to suspition, cares
And Free both from hopes and fears
Which sejourn with me, and call
Each hours thoughts my funerall
Then to'th'end I might repaire
My hopes wounded by despaire
Guive me leave for to apply
My balme to your cruelty
Vowes, which if they can appease
Your fury I may have ease
If not I shall begg youl'd make
The wound mortall for my sake.
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