WRETCHED and foolish jealousy,
How cam’st thou thus to enter me?
I ne’er was of thy kind:
Nor have I yet the narrow mind
To vent that poor desire,
That others should not warm them at my fire:
I wish the sun should shine
On all men’s fruits and flowers as well as mine.
But under the disguise of love,
Thou say’st thou only cam’st to prove
What my affections were.
Think’st thou that love is helped by fear?
Go, get thee quickly forth,
Love’s sickness and his noted want of worth,
Seek doubting men to please.
I ne’er will owe my health to a disease.