XLV
        
If it chance your eye offend you,
         Pluck it out, lad, and be sound:
'Twill hurt, but here are salves to friend you,
         And many a balsam grows on ground.
        
And if your hand or foot offend you,
         Cut it off, lad, and be whole;
But play the man, stand up and end you,
         When your sickness is your soul.