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.