Ah! nay, let be; the philosópher’s stone, Elixir call’d, we seekë fast each one; For had we him, then were we sicker 4719 enow; But unto God of heaven I make avow, 4720 For all our craft, when we have all y-do, And all our sleight, he will not come us to. He hath y-made us spendë muchë good, For sorrow of which almost we waxed wood, 4721 But that good hopë creeped in our heart, Supposing ever, though we sorë smart, To be relieved by him afterward. Such súpposing and hope is sharp and hard. I warn you well it is to seeken ever. That future temps 4722 hath madë men dissever, In trust thereof, from all that ever they had, Yet of that art they cannot waxë sad, 4723