The Works of Abraham Cowley/Volume 2/The Cure
THE CURE.
Come, doctor! use thy roughest art,Thou canst not cruel prove;Cut, burn, and torture, every part,To heal me of my love.
There is no danger, if the painShould me to a fever bring;Compar'd with heats I now sustain,A fever is so cool a thing(Like drink which feverish men desire)That I should hope 't would almost quench my fire.