O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide,
The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds,
That did not better for my life provide
Than public means which public manners breeds.
Thence comes it that my name received a brand,
And almost thence my nature is subdu’d
To what it works in, like the dyer’s hand.
Pity me then, and wish I were renew’d,
Whilst like a willing patient I will drink
Potions of cisel `gainst my strong infection,
No bitterness that I will bitter think,
Nor double penance, to correct correction.
Pity me then, dear friend, and I assure ye,
Even that your pity is enough to cure me.