Song. To Sickness

VIII.
 ? SONG.
 ? TO SICKNESS.
     
To thy altars, by their nights 
Spent in surfeits ; and their days, 
And nights too, in worser ways ? 
    Take heed, Sickness, what you do, 
I shall fear you'll surfeit too.
 
Live not we, as all thy stalls,And this age will build no more.
 
    'Pray thee, feed contented then, 
    Sickness, only on us men ; 
    Or if it needs thy lust will taste 
    Woman-kind ; devour the waste 
    Livers, round about the town.
 
But, forgive me, ? with thy crown 
They maintain the truest trade,
10    Daintiness, and softer ease, 
    Sleeked limbs, and finest blood ? 
    If thy leanness love such food, 
    There are those, that for thy sake, 
    Do enough ; and who would take 
    Any pains : yea, think it price, 
    To become thy sacrifice.
 
    That distill, their husbands' land    Lying for the spirit of amber.
 
    That for the oil of talc dare spend 
    More than citizens dare lend 
    Them, and all their officers.
 
    That to make all pleasure theirs, 
    Will by coach, and water go, 
    Every stew in town to know ; 
    Dare entail their loves on any,    Play away health, wealth, and fame.
 
These, Disease, will thee deserve ; 
And will long, ere thou should'st starve, 
On their beds, most prostitute, 
Move it, as their humblest suit, 
In thy justice to molest 
None but them, and leave the rest.


Ladies, and of them the best? 
Do not men enow of rights 
To thy altars, by their nights 
Spent in surfeits ; and their days, 
And nights too, in worser ways ? 
    Take heed, Sickness, what you do, 
I shall fear you'll surfeit too.
 
Live not we, as all thy stalls,

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