The Blacksmith's Forge

If burning lustful love you'll cure,
you'll protest much, I'm sure.

When the blacksmith casts cold water upon the iron hot,
Intending to pacify the heat which it lately got:
It sizzles, smokes, it groans,
And makes wondrous noises to hear,
In angry protest it doth appear.

Of burning love do some complain, and yet they refuse, we see.
Out of such hot passion to be brought,
Lest cured they should be.
Yes, though doctors might be found to bring about love's true liberty,
They would rather burn in lust than from it to be set free.

Lust is the kind of fire
that some would rather keep smouldering than douse.