I burn, I burn; and beg of you To 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 here Unless you cool me with a tear: Alas! I call; but ah! I see Ye cool and comfort all but me.