"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."