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Poem	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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