My dearest Ferdinand, I would my sighes Or sad lamenting teares might have the power Like Balme to quicken thy benummed joynts: Then would I drowne this marble e're I went And heat it hote with vapour of my breath.

My Crowne as soone: they feele their sinowy plots Belike to shrinke i'th joynts, and fearing Ruine Have found this Cement out to piece up all, Which more endangers all.