Out of an old Poet.

Fie, fie, I loath to speak: wilt thou, my lust,
Compel me now to do so foul an act?
Nay, rather God with flame consume to dust
My carrion vile, than I perform this fact.
Let rather thoughts that long have wearied me,
Or sickness such as fancy fond hath brought,
O gaping hell, drive me now down to thee,
Let boiling signs consume me all to nought.