My mind should strive if it claim the sole cure To eternal joy for which I am due. Though others prefer I give in the lure My claim won't for 'tis foolish to be few. To stay thus, would render only suffrage, Though not a matter whilst I've my good teas. Should my tourniquet no more bandage, 'T means it must hath be infested of fleas. Thus I must claim the illness in form same For though indeed I might cure my soul, I can ******. How shall my heart dirtless be; it hath blame! The heat serves simply to aid this girder. For that sole moment, I am that healing Which can only be seen with fine loathing.