The Love Sonnets of Proteus, To Manon, XX: On falling Ill through Grief

Truce to thee, Soul ! I have a debt to pay,
Which I acknowledge and without thy pleading.
I like thee little that thou barrest my way
With prayers too late for one well past thy heeding.
Truce to these tears ! Thy fellow Lieth bleeding,
Wounded by thee ; and thou, forsooth, dost say,
" I have a servant who is sick and needing
Care at men's hands." The care was thine to pay.
— When this same Soul was sick, a while ago,
The Body watched her, till his eyes grew dim
And his cheeks pale for very sympathy,
Because she grieved. His love has wrought him woe.
For he is sick and she despiseth him.
Poor Body, I must take some thought of thee.