I burn, I burn. To the Dews

I burn, I burn; and beg of you

To quench or cool me with your dew.

I fry in fire, and so consume,

Although the bile be all perfume.

Alas! the heat and death's the same,

Whether by choice or common flame

To be in oil of roses drowned,

Or water; where's the comfort found?

Both bring one death; and I die here

Unless you cool me with a tear:

Alas! I call; but ah! I see

Ye cool, and comfort all but me.