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CXVIII.
Like as, to make our appetites more keen,
With eager
compounds we our palate urge,
As, to prevent our
maladies unseen,
We sicken to shun sickness when we
purge,
Even so, being tuff of your ne'er-cloying
sweetness,
To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding
And, sick of welfare, found a kind of meetness
To be
diseased ere that there was true needing.
Thus policy
in love, to anticipate
The ills that were not, grew
to faults assured
And brought to medicine a healthful
state
Which, rank of goodness, would by ill be cured:
But thence I learn, and find the lesson true,
Drugs
poison him that so fell sick of you.
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