Art thou alive? It cannot be, br There's so much Rottenness in Thee, br Corruption only is in Death; br And what's more Putrid than thy Breath? br Think not you Live, because you Speak, br For Graves such hollow Sounds can make; br And Respiration can't suffice, br For Vapours do from Caverns rise: br From Thee such noisom Stenches come, br Thy Mouth betrays thy Breast a Tomb. br Thy Body is a Corpse that goes, br By Magick rais'd from its Repose: br A Pestilence that walks by Day, br But falls at Night to Worms and Clay. br But I will to my Chloris run, br Who will not let me be undone: br The Sweets her Virgin-Breath contains, br Are fitted to remove my Pains; br There will I healing Nectar sip, br And to be sav'd, approach her Lip, br Tho' if I touch the matchless Dame, br I'm sure to burn with inward Flame. br Thus when I wou'd one Danger shun, br I'm strait upon another thrown: br I seek a Cure one Sore to ease, br Yet in that Cure's a New Disease. br But Love, tho' fatal, still can bless, br And greater Dangers hide the less; br I'll go where Passion bids me fly, br And chuse my Death, since I must Dye; br As Doves pursu'd by Birds of Prey, br Venture with milder Man to stay.