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Epigram. 27. Ad quosdam florentes quondam, iam miseros & conquerentes
commilitones suos.
VVhy shew you mee, my (whilome happy) mates
The ouergrowne infirmities that grieue you,
Wo's mee to see your so-much altred States:
I can lament, but I can not relieue you.
Think'st thou Wat I can cure the curelesse goute?
Can Iames Scyatticke hips hope helpe of mee?
Dicks dropsy-ale-puft flesh stands swelling out,
I can recouer none of all you three:
And Rafe, the pox may eate into thy bones,
And thou remaine remedilesse for mee:
Nor leprous Iacke be freed from scabs: at once
I can helpe none of you in no degree:
For first I'me no Physition at all,
And Poore, I cannot build an Hospitall.
| Rvbbe, and A great Cast | |
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