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 pain
Should me to'a Feaver bring;
Compar'd with Heats I now sustain,
A Feaver is so Cool a thing,
(Like drink which feaverish men desire)
That I should hope 'twould almost quench my Fire: