My hope laye gasping on his dying bedd
slayn with a word the dart of thy disdayne
Another woord breathd lyfe in it againe
& stauncht the blood my wounded hope had shed.

Sweete tonge then sith thou canst reuive the dead
thou easely maist aswage a sick mans payne
What glory then shall such thy power gayne
which sicknes, health, which lyfe & death hast bredd.

One word gaue lyfe: one more cann helth restore
yf noe? I live: but live as better noe.
more thou speakest not & yf I call for more
more is thy wrath & thy wrath breeds my woe.

My tonge & thine thus both conspire my smart
myne while I speake, thine while thou sylent art.