“You troubled mindes with tormentes lostethat 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.”