I think, thou wilt forbear a boast so bold.
But if, beneath the favour of mistake,
Thy smile’s sincere; not more sincere can be
Lorenzo’s smile, than my compassion for him.
The sick in body call for aid; the sick
In mind are covetous of more disease;
And when at worst, they dream themselves quite well.
To know ourselves diseased, is half our cure.
When Nature’s blush by Custom is wiped off,
And Conscience, deaden’d by repeated strokes, 40