To Dews. A Song

I burn, I burn; and beg of youTo quench or cool me with your dew.I fry in fire, and so consume,Although the pile be all perfume.Alas! the heat and death's the same,Whether by choice or common flame,To be in oil of roses drowned,Or water; where's the comfort found?Both bring one death; and I die hereUnless you cool me with a tear:Alas! I call; but ah! I seeYe cool and comfort all but me.