On Cynthia Sick (Sonnet)

HELP! Help! Ye Nymphs, whilst on the neighb'ring Plain
Your Flocks do feed, Come and Assistance bring,
Alas! Fair Cynthia's sick and languishing,
For whom my Heart endures a greater Pain.

Ye Syrens of the Thames, let all your Train
Tune their shrill Instruments, and to them sing,
And let its Flow'ry Banks with Echo's ring,
This may her wonted cheerful Looks regain.

Ye Herbs, that richest Med'cines can produce,
Come quickly and afford such Sov'reign Juice,
As from her Heart may all the Pains remove

But in her Face if Death would Paleness give
And Fate ordain that she in Torment live,
Then let her suffer in the Flames of Love.