University of Virginia Library

III. PSALMS VI. II.

Have mercy, Lord, upon me, for I am weak; O Lord heale me, for my bones are vexed.

Soule. Jesus.
Soule:
Ah, Son of David, help:

Jesus:
What sinfull crie
Implores the Son of David?

Soule:
It is I:

Jesus:
Who art thou?

Soule:
Oh, a deeply wounded brest
That's heavy laden, and would faine have rest.

Jesus:
I have no scraps, and dogs must not be fed
Like household Children, with the childrens bread:

Soule:
True Lord; yet tolerate a hungry whelp
To lick their crums: O, Son of David, help.

Jesus:
Poore Soule, what ail'st thou?

Soule:
O I burne, I fry;
I cannot rest; I know not where to fly
To find some ease; I turne my blubber'd face
From man to man; I roule from place to place,
T'avoid my tortures, to obtaine reliefe,
But still am dogg'd and haunted with my griefe:
My midnight torments call the sluggish light,
And when the morning's come, they woo the night.

Jesus:
Surcease thy teares, and speake thy free desires;

Soule:
Quench, quench my flames, and swage these scorching fires:

Jesus:
Canst thou believe my hand can cure thy griefe;

Soule:
Lord, I believe; Lord, help my unbelefe:

Jesus:
Hold forth thy Arme, and let my fingers try
Thy Pulse; where (chiefly) does the torment lie?

Soule:
From head to foot; it raignes in ev'ry part
But playes the selfe-law'd Tyrant in my heart.

Jesus:
Canst thou digest? canst relish wholsome food?
How stands thy tast?

Soule:
To nothing that is good:
All sinfull trash, and earths unsav'ry stuffe
I can digest, and relish well enough:

Jesus:
Is not thy bloud as cold as hot, by turnes?

Soule:
Cold to what's good; to what is bad, it burnes:

Jesus:
How old's thy griefe?

Soule:
I tooke it at the Fall
With eating Fruit.

Jesus:
'Tis Epidemicall;
Thy blood's infected, and th'Infection sprung
From a bad Liver: 'Tis a Fever strong,
And full of death, unlesse, with present speed,
A veine be op'ned; Thou must die, or bleed.

Soule:
O I am faint, and spent. That Launce that shall
Let forth my bloud, lets forth my life withall;
My soule wants Cordialls, and has greater need
Of blood, than (being spent so farre) to bleed;
I faint already: If I bleed, I die;

Jesus:
'Tis either thou must bleed, sicke soule, or I:
My blood's a cordiall: He that suckes my veines,
Shall cleanse his owne, and conquer greater paines
Than these: Cheere up: this precioius Blood of mine
Shall cure thy Griefe; my heart shall bleed for thine:
Believe, and view me with a faithfull eye;
Thy soule shall neither languish, bleed, nor die

S. AUGUST. lib. 10. Confess.

Lord, Be mercifull unto me: Ah me: Behold, I hide not my wounds: Thou art a Physitian, and I am sicke; Thou art mercifull, and I am miserable.

S. GREG. in Pastoral.

O Wisedome, with how sweet an art does thy wine and oyle restore health to my healthlesse soule! How powerfully mercifull, how mercifully powerfull art thou! Powerfull, for me, Mercifull, to me!

EPIGRAM 3.

[Canst thou be sick, and such a Doctor by?]

Canst thou be sick, and such a Doctor by?
Thou canst not live, unlesse thy Doctor die:
Strange kind of griefe, that finds no med'cine good
To swage her paines, but the Physitians Blood!