To Sicknesse

Why, disease, dost thou molest
Ladies? and of them the best?
Doe not men, ynow of rites
To thy altars, by their nights
Spent in surfets: and their dayes,
And nights too, in worser wayes?
Take heed, Sicknesse, what you doe,
I shall feare, you'll surfet too.
Live not we, as, all thy stalls,
Spittles, pest-house, hospitalls,
Scarce will take our present store?
And this age will build no more:
'Pray thee, feed contented, then,
Sicknesse; onely on us men.
Or if needs thy lust will tast
Woman-kinde; devoure the wast
Livers, round about the towne.
But, forgive me, with thy crowne
They maintayne the truest trade,
And have more diseases made.
What should, yet, thy pallat please?
Daintinesse, and softer ease,
Sleeked limmes, and finest blood?
If thy leanenesse love such food,
There are those, that, for thy sake,
Doe enough; and who would take
Any paines; yea, thinke it price,
To become thy sacrifice.
That distill their husbands land
In decoctions; and are mann'd
With ten Emp'ricks, in their chamber,
Lying for the spirit of amber.
That for th'oyle of Talke, dare spend
More then citizens dare lend
Them, and all their officers.
That, to make all pleasure theirs,
Will by coach, and water goe,
Every stew in towne to know;
Dare entayle their loves on any,
Bald, or blinde, or nere so many:
And, for thee, at common game,
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 sute,
In thy justice to molest
None but them, and leave the rest.