2760With, 'Madam, where Albino's none can guess.
They think his ashes are enclosed in urns.
For time, say they, has counted fortnights many,
Since his choice feature object was to any.'
This answer shot an hailstorm at her heart,
Whose sudden chillness jellied all her blood,
Sh' applièd Holco to unscrew the dart,
But her assayments brought her little good.
For, but Albino, none can cure her ill,
Not physic potions, or the druggard's skill.