On pulse his finger. He then, one by one,
Inquired anew each point, omitting none.
So he whose foot is wounded with a thorn,
Upon his knee doth take the limb that’s torn.120
With needle’s point he seeks the intrusive dart;
Not finding it, from lip he soothes the smart.
If thorn in foot is thus a task to find,
Judge what must be a rankling pang of mind.
Could every chance observer spy those ills,
Where’d be the cankering care, the grief that kills?