Poems or, A Miscellany of Sonnets, Satyrs, Drollery, Panegyricks, Elegies, &c. At the Instance, and Request of Several Friends, Times, and Occasions, Composed; and now at their command Collected, and Committed to the Press. By the Author, M. Stevenson |
 |
The Low Estate of the Low-Country Countess of Holland, on Her Death-bed, with the Advice of her Doctors, and Confessors.
|
 | Poems |  |
97
The Low Estate of the Low-Country Countess of Holland, on Her Death-bed, with the Advice of her Doctors, and Confessors.
See how she lies in poor distressed State,
Whom all her Doctors now judge desperate.
Fain would her widen'd arms some comfort clasp,
But comfort comes too late, at the last gasp.
Her Children, and her near Relations run,
About the Streets, and cry undone, undone!
And swear that the Physicians do not come
To Cure, but send her to her long, long home.
Whom all her Doctors now judge desperate.
Fain would her widen'd arms some comfort clasp,
But comfort comes too late, at the last gasp.
Her Children, and her near Relations run,
About the Streets, and cry undone, undone!
And swear that the Physicians do not come
To Cure, but send her to her long, long home.
The North-pole Doctor feels her Pulse to be
As feeble now, as her Authoritie:
Whose constitution sometimes since so good,
Had she been temperate? she might stil have stood.
But with her Spice-box she kept such a coile,
She heat her blood, and made it over-boile.
By which Distemper she a Frenzy gat,
And said, and did at last she knew not what.
Nay She, in this Distemper of her Brain,
Fancy'd her self sole Soveraign of the Main,
A main mistake indeed, like Dreams of baggs,
Or such, wear Robes in sleep, but rise in raggs.
She that on Pictures doted so, may here,
Her self the Picture see of a dear Year.
As feeble now, as her Authoritie:
Whose constitution sometimes since so good,
Had she been temperate? she might stil have stood.
But with her Spice-box she kept such a coile,
She heat her blood, and made it over-boile.
By which Distemper she a Frenzy gat,
And said, and did at last she knew not what.
98
Fancy'd her self sole Soveraign of the Main,
A main mistake indeed, like Dreams of baggs,
Or such, wear Robes in sleep, but rise in raggs.
She that on Pictures doted so, may here,
Her self the Picture see of a dear Year.
Next Doctor to a Surfeit does impute,
From her devouring too much Spanish Fruit:
And not digesting Crudities, he says,
Has turn'd the Butter in her Maw to grease.
He sayes besides, her Tongue is very fowl,
And he is in the right on't, o' my Soul;
To gargle it, in vain ye go about,
'Twill ne'er be clean, until it be clean out.
Nay, she the Scurvy has too, and in truth,
This last Sea Fight has drawn out her last tooth
From her devouring too much Spanish Fruit:
And not digesting Crudities, he says,
Has turn'd the Butter in her Maw to grease.
He sayes besides, her Tongue is very fowl,
And he is in the right on't, o' my Soul;
To gargle it, in vain ye go about,
'Twill ne'er be clean, until it be clean out.
Nay, she the Scurvy has too, and in truth,
This last Sea Fight has drawn out her last tooth
Another says, 'tis a malignant Feaver,
Sprung from her falser heart, and fouler Liver;
The ferment of her Stomack gives it way,
And it does on her very Vitals prey.
Hot-spur whips out his Lance, to let her blood,
E're he her Malady well understood.
Yet he an able Doctor is, although
With her, he's no approv'd Physician now.
Sprung from her falser heart, and fouler Liver;
The ferment of her Stomack gives it way,
And it does on her very Vitals prey.
Hot-spur whips out his Lance, to let her blood,
E're he her Malady well understood.
Yet he an able Doctor is, although
With her, he's no approv'd Physician now.
Hold, quoth a soberer Doctor, she's too old,
She's full a hundred, and her days are told.
Her blood is turn'd to a pituitous matter,
She's Dropsical, and drown'd in her own water.
She makes it freely, but no ease at all,
Although it overflow the Urinal.
She's full a hundred, and her days are told.
Her blood is turn'd to a pituitous matter,
She's Dropsical, and drown'd in her own water.
99
Although it overflow the Urinal.
Next comes a whisling Doctor with a Vomit,
But that the graver sort disswade her from it.
For it, alas, would but her griefs enhance,
And make her spew out her Inhabitants:
Her lower Region under VVater lies,
And if ye draw it up, she drowns and dies.
What then to her do ye intend to do?
She has a Feaver, and a Dropsie too.
Her spirits that so haughty were are fled,
And here she bed-rid lies more than half dead.
She is departing, and the People just
Ready to lay her honour in the dust.
But that the graver sort disswade her from it.
For it, alas, would but her griefs enhance,
And make her spew out her Inhabitants:
Her lower Region under VVater lies,
And if ye draw it up, she drowns and dies.
What then to her do ye intend to do?
She has a Feaver, and a Dropsie too.
Her spirits that so haughty were are fled,
And here she bed-rid lies more than half dead.
She is departing, and the People just
Ready to lay her honour in the dust.
Farewell Physicians, your too costly fees,
Have Bank-rupt her, and drawn her to the Lees.
She's in a weak estate, and now time for
An Application to her Confessor.
Who here, good Father, leans on the Bed-post,
With extreme Unction, Crucifix and Host.
If any possibility appear?
To exorcise the Devil out of her;
And being for her Hellish actions sorry,
To pray her in and out of Purgatory.
But shrive her to the bottom; when she is
Fit for the next world, she is fit for this.
Have Bank-rupt her, and drawn her to the Lees.
She's in a weak estate, and now time for
An Application to her Confessor.
Who here, good Father, leans on the Bed-post,
With extreme Unction, Crucifix and Host.
If any possibility appear?
To exorcise the Devil out of her;
And being for her Hellish actions sorry,
To pray her in and out of Purgatory.
But shrive her to the bottom; when she is
Fit for the next world, she is fit for this.
But stay, here comes a Doctor from the Hague,
A Soveraign Doctor cures her of her Plague.
She that but now was sinking, soon shall swim,
Soon as she swears she will be rul'd by him.
We hear that she has done it; Then be sure,
Her very Resignation is her Cure.
Who knows what virtues in an Orange dwell!
An Orange only 'tis, cou'd make her well.
A Soveraign Doctor cures her of her Plague.
100
Soon as she swears she will be rul'd by him.
We hear that she has done it; Then be sure,
Her very Resignation is her Cure.
Who knows what virtues in an Orange dwell!
An Orange only 'tis, cou'd make her well.
| Poems | |