Iter boreale With large additions of several other poems: being an exact collection of all hitherto extant. Never before published together. The author R. Wild |
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| V. | V. |
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 | Iter boreale |  |
V.
Sick (as her heart can hold) the Nation lies,Filling each corner with her hideous cries:
Somtimes Rage (like a burning Fever) heats,
Anon Despair brings cold and clammy Sweats;
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Of Rapes, Thefts, Burnings, Blood, and direful theams;
Tosses from side to side, then by and by
Her feet are laid there where the head did lie:
None can come to her but bold Empericks,
Who never meant to cure her but try tricks:
Those very Doctors who should give her ease,
(God help the Patient) was her worst disease.
Th' Italian Mountebank Vane tells her sure
Jesuits Powder will effect the Cure.
If grief but makes her swell, Martin and Nevil
Conclude it is a spice of the Kings-Evil.
Bleed her again, another cries;—And Scot
Saith he could cure her, if 'twas—you know what:
But giddy Harrington a whimsey found,
To make her head (like to his brains) run round:
Her old and wise Physitians, who before
Had well nigh cur'd her, came again to th' dore,
But were kept out, which made her cry the more,
Help, help, (dear Children) Oh! some pity take
On her who bore you! help for mercy sake!
Oh heart! Oh head! Oh back! Oh bones! I feel
They've poyson'd me with giving too much steel:
Oh give me that for which I long and cry!
Somthing that's Soveraign, or else I dye.
| Iter boreale | |