My health is naught; she’s life of life to me.
I’m sad at heart; my sov’reign balm is she.
Who finds a remedy to save her life,
Much gold, with jewels, his; and thanks more rife.”10
All promised marvels; each, to use his skill;
To search the case; to ease the maiden’s ill.
“Each one of us has Jesu’s[59] healing power.
Of all their ills we cure men every hour.”
Through pride, “God willing” said they not, I trow.[60]
Man’s nothingness, in them the Lord would show.