You troubled mindes with tormentes loste
that sighes and sobs consumes:
(Who breathes and puffes from burning breast,
both smothring smoke and fumes.)
Come reade this booke that freelye bringes, a boxe of balme full swete,
An oyle to noynt the brused partes, of everye heavye spirete.
...The lame whose lack of legges is death, unto a loftye mynde,
Wyll kiss his crotche and creepe on knees,Cardanus workes to fynde.