Book II, 26: On a spirituall Feaver

My soule hath had a Fever, a long while;
O, I can neither rellish, nor digest,
My nimble Pulses beat; my veynes doe boile:
I cannot close mine eyes, I cannot rest:
O, for a Surgeon, now, to strike a Vaine!
That, that would lay my Heate, and ease my Paine:
No, no, It is thy Blood, and not my owne,
Thy Blood must cure me, Iesus, or else none.