BASILIUS Thy wailing words do much my spirits move, They uttered are in such a feeling fashion, {190} That sorrow’s work against my will I prove. Methinks I am partaker of thy passion, And in thy case do glass mine own debility: Self-guilty folk most prone to feel compassion. Yet reason faith, “Reason should have ability To hold those worldly things in such proportion, As let them come or go with even facility.” But our desire’s tyrannical extortion Doth force us there to set our chief delightfulness Where but a baiting place is all our portion. But still although we fail of perfect rightfulness, Seek we to tame those childish superfluities: Let us not wink though void of purest sightfulness For what can breed more peevish incongruities, Than man to yield to female lamentations: Let us some grammar learn of more congruities. PLANGUS If through mine ears pierce any consolations, By wise discourse, sweet tunes, or poets’ fiction; If aught I cease those hideous exclamations; While that my soul, she, lives in affliction; Then let my life long time on earth maintained be, To wretched me, the last worst malediction. Can I that knew her sacred parts, restrained be From any joy? know fortunes vile displacing her, In mortal rules let raging woes contained be? Can I forget, when they in prison placing her, With swelling heart in spite and due disdainfulness She lay for dead, till I help’d with unlacing her? Can I forget from how much mourning painfulness With diamond in window-glass she grav’d “Erona die, and end this ugly painfulness”? Can I forget in how strange phrase she crav’d That quickly they would her burn, drown or smother, As if by death she only might be sav’d? Then let me eke forget one hand from other: Let me forget that Plangus I am called: Let me forget I am son to my mother: But if my memory must thus be thralled To that strange stroke which conquered all my senses. Can thoughts still thinking, so rest unappalled? BASILIUS Who still doth seek against himself offences, What pardon can avail? or who employs him To hurt himself, what shields can be defences? {191} Woe to poor man; each outward thing annoys him In divers kinds; yet as he were not filled, He heaps in outward grief, that most destroys him. Thus is our thought with pain for thistles tilled: Thus be our noblest parts dried up with sorrow: Thus is our mind with too much minding spilled. One day lays up store of grief for the morrow: And whose good haps do leave him unprovided, Condoling cause of friendship he will borrow: Betwixt the good and shade of good divided, We pity deem that which but weakness is: So are we from our high creation slided. But Plangus, lest I may your sickness miss, Or rubbing, hurt the sore, I here do end. The ass did hurt when he did think to kiss.