Luc. In troubles comfort?
Mir. You say true, sweet.
Luc. In sicknes, restore health?
Mir. All this it can do.
Luc. Preserve from evils that afflict our frailties.
Mir. I hope she will be Christian: all these truly.
Luc. Why are you sick then, sick to death with lust?
In danger to be lost? no holy thought,
In all that heart, nothing but wandring frailties
Wild as the wind, and blind as death or ignorance,
Inhabit there.
Mir. Forgive me heaven, she says true.
Luc. Dare ye profess that badge, prophane that goodness?
Col. Thou hast redeem'd thy self again, most rarely.