That woe to me that moves your discontent?

_Wil_. Good Maister _Cowley_, you were ever kinde,
But pardon me; I will not utter it
To any one, for I have past my worde;
And therefore urge me not to tell my griefe.

_Cow_. But those that smother griefe too secretly,
May wast themselves in silent anguishment,
And bring their bodies to so low an ebb,
That all the world can never make it flowe,
Unto the happy hight of former health.
Then be not [so] iniurious to thy selfe,
To wast thy strength in lamentation,
But tell thy case; wele seeke some remedie.

_Wil_. My cause of griefe is now remedilesse,
And all the world can never lessen it;
Then since no meanes can make my sorrowes lesse,
Suffer me waile a woe which wants redresse.

_Cow_. Yet let me beare a part in thy lamentes,
I love thee not so ill but I will mone
Thy heavie haps; thou shalt not sigh alone.

_Wil_. Nay, if you are so curious to intrude
Your selfe to sorrow, where you have no share,
I will frequent some unfrequented place
Where none shall here nor see my lamentations. [_Exit_.