Bee you their minutes, and let men forgett
To count their ages from the plague of sweat,
75From eighty eight, the Poulder-plot, or when
Men were affrayd to talke of it againe;
And in their numerations be it sayd
Thus old was I when such a teare was shed,
And when that other fell a comett rose
80And all the world tooke notice of my woes.
Yet finding them past cure, as doctores fly
Their patientes past all hope of remedy,