A Fever

• Oh do not die, for I shall hate
• All women so, when thou art gone,
• That thee I shall not celebrate,
• When I remember, thou wast one.
• But yet thou canst not die, I know,
• To leave this world behind, is death,
• But when thou from this world wilt go,
• The whole world vapors with thy breath.
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• Or if, when thou, the world's soul, goest,
• It stay, 'tis but thy carcass then,
• The fairest woman, but thy ghost,
• But corrupt worms, the worthiest men.
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• O wrangling schools, that search what fire
• Shall burn this world, had none the wit
• Unto this knowledge to aspire,
• That this her fever might be it?
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• And yet she cannot waste by this,
• Nor long bear this torturing wrong,
• For much corruption needful is
• To fuel such a fever long.
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• These burning fits but meteors be,
• Whose matter in thee is soon spent.
• Thy beauty, and all parts, which are thee,
• Are unchangeable firmament.
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• Yet 'twas of my mind, seizing thee,
• Though it in thee cannot persever.
• For I had rather owner be,
• Of thee one hour, than all else ever.