1. COme, Doctor, use thy roughest art, Thou canst not cruell prove; Cut, burne, and torture every Part, To heal me of my Love. 2. There is no danger, if the pain Should me to 'a Feaver bring; Compar'd with Heats I now sustain, A Fevour is so Cool a thing, (Like drink which feaverish men desire) That I should hope 'twould almost quench my Fire. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE VANTAGE POINT by ROBERT FROST RIDDLE ON THE LETTER H (1) by CATHERINE MARIA FANSHAWE MALVERN HILL [JULY 1, 1862] by HERMAN MELVILLE SALOME by GUILLAUME APOLLINAIRE STANZAS SELECTED FROM THE PAINS OR MEMORY; A FRAGMENT by BERNARD BARTON ECHOES OF SPRING: 8 by MATHILDE BLIND |