On A Lady With A Foul Breath

Art thou alive? It cannot be, There's so much Rottenness in Thee, Corruption only is in Death; And what's more Putrid than thy Breath? Think not you Live, because you Speak, For Graves such hollow Sounds can make; And Respiration can't suffice, For Vapours do from Caverns rise: From Thee such noisom Stenches come, Thy Mouth betrays thy Breast a Tomb. Thy Body is a Corpse that goes, By Magick rais'd from its Repose: A Pestilence that walks by Day, But falls at Night to Worms and Clay. But I will to my Chloris run, Who will not let me be undone: The Sweets her Virgin-Breath contains, Are fitted to remove my Pains; There will I healing Nectar sip, And to be sav'd, approach her Lip, Tho' if I touch the matchless Dame, I'm sure to burn with inward Flame. Thus when I wou'd one Danger shun, I'm strait upon another thrown: I seek a Cure one Sore to ease, Yet in that Cure's a New Disease. But Love, tho' fatal, still can bless, And greater Dangers hide the less; I'll go where Passion bids me fly, And chuse my Death, since I must Dye; As Doves pursu'd by Birds of Prey, Venture with milder Man to stay.