O For My Sake Do You With Fortune Chide
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
receives
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
eysell,
‘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.
