As other Men, so I my selfe doe Muse,
Why in this sort I wrest Inuention so,
And why these giddy Metaphors I vse,
Leauing the Path the greater part doe goe;
I will resolue you; I am Lunaticke,
And euer this in Mad-men you shall finde,
What they last thought of, when the Braine grew sicke,
In most distraction they keepe that in Minde.
Thus talking idly in this Bedlam fit,
Reason and I (you must conceiue) are twaine,
Tis nine yeeres now since first I lost my Wit,
Beare with Me then, though troubled be my Braine;
With Diet and Correction, Men distraught,
(Not too farre past) may to their Wits be brought.