Whose bleeding sourse their streames yet never staunch, But stil do flow, and freshly still redownd*, 165 To heale the sores of sinfull soules unsound, And clense the guilt of that infected cryme, Which was enrooted in all fleshly slyme.

Thus, thus I wipe away my passions, Thus doe I heale the torments of my love, Thus doe I ransome my inthralled eye, And by depriving of the cause of life Kill th' effect, which was a world of sorrow.

No skill of surgerie Can heale the wounds, nor oceans quench the flames Made by all pow'rfull love.