Pia Desideria or, Divine Addresses, In Three Books. Illustrated with XLVII. Copper-Plates. Written in Latin by Herm. Hugo. Englished by Edm. Arwaker ... The Fourth Edition, Corrected |
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 | Pia Desideria |  |
17
III.
Have mercy upon me, O Lord, for I am weak: O Lord, heal me, for my Bones are vexed,
Psal. vi. 2.
Shall my just Grief be querulous, or mute,
Full of Disease, of Physick destitute?
I thought thy Love so constant heretofore,
That Vows were needless to confirm me more:
And can'st thou now absent, and slight my Pain?
What fault of mine has caus'd this cold Disdain?
Full of Disease, of Physick destitute?
I thought thy Love so constant heretofore,
That Vows were needless to confirm me more:
And can'st thou now absent, and slight my Pain?
What fault of mine has caus'd this cold Disdain?
O best Physician of my love-sick Soul,
Whose sight alone will make thy Patient whole;
Thou who hast caus'd, can'st thou forget my Grief,
Which only from its Author seeks Relief?
Whose sight alone will make thy Patient whole;
Thou who hast caus'd, can'st thou forget my Grief,
Which only from its Author seeks Relief?
Shou'd they whose Art gave dying Fame new breath,
And rescu'd their surviving Names from Death:
They in whose sight no bold Disease durst stand,
But trembling vanish'd at their least command;
They who each Simple's sov'reign Virtue knew,
And to their ends cou'd well apply them too:
Shou'd they their Skill in tedious Consult try,
All, all wou'd fail to ease my misery;
All their Prescriptions without Thine are vain,
Thine only suit the Nature of my Pain.
Thou who hast caus'd, can'st thou forget my Grief,
Which only from its Author seeks Relief?
And rescu'd their surviving Names from Death:
They in whose sight no bold Disease durst stand,
But trembling vanish'd at their least command;
They who each Simple's sov'reign Virtue knew,
And to their ends cou'd well apply them too:
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All, all wou'd fail to ease my misery;
All their Prescriptions without Thine are vain,
Thine only suit the Nature of my Pain.
Thou who hast caus'd, can'st thou forget my Grief,
Which only from its Author seeks Relief?
See! my parch'd Tongue my inward heat declares,
And my quick Pulse proclaims intestine Wars;
While so much Blood's profusely spent within,
That not one drop can in my Cheeks be seen:
And the same Pulse that once gave brisk Alarms,
Beats a dead March in my dejected Arms:
My Doctors sigh, and shrugging take their leave,
And me to Heav'n and a cold Grave bequeath,
While more than they the fatal sense I feel
Of my lost Health, and their successful Skill.
And my quick Pulse proclaims intestine Wars;
While so much Blood's profusely spent within,
That not one drop can in my Cheeks be seen:
And the same Pulse that once gave brisk Alarms,
Beats a dead March in my dejected Arms:
My Doctors sigh, and shrugging take their leave,
And me to Heav'n and a cold Grave bequeath,
While more than they the fatal sense I feel
Of my lost Health, and their successful Skill.
What can the Patient hope, when ev'n despair
Discourages the lost Physician's care!
The subtle Poyson creeps through all my Veins,
And in my Bones the fierce Contagion reigns:
My drooping Head flies to my Hands for aid,
But by the feeble Props is soon betray'd:
Now my last breath is ready to expire,
And I must next to Death's dark Cell retire.
Vainly I strive my other Pains to tell,
Because their numbers unaccountable.
In this forlorn unpity'd state I lie,
While he who can relieve me, lets me die.
My Face all chang'd, and out of knowledge grown,
Ev'n I am scarce perswaded 'tis my own.
My Eyes have shrunk for shelter to my Head,
And on my Cheek the Rose hangs pale and dead.
No pow'r cou'd drive the fierce Disease away,
Nor force th'insulting Victor from his prey.
My Bed I loath; nor can it sleep procure;
My festring Wounds no Surgion's hands endure.
Discourages the lost Physician's care!
The subtle Poyson creeps through all my Veins,
And in my Bones the fierce Contagion reigns:
My drooping Head flies to my Hands for aid,
But by the feeble Props is soon betray'd:
Now my last breath is ready to expire,
And I must next to Death's dark Cell retire.
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Because their numbers unaccountable.
In this forlorn unpity'd state I lie,
While he who can relieve me, lets me die.
My Face all chang'd, and out of knowledge grown,
Ev'n I am scarce perswaded 'tis my own.
My Eyes have shrunk for shelter to my Head,
And on my Cheek the Rose hangs pale and dead.
No pow'r cou'd drive the fierce Disease away,
Nor force th'insulting Victor from his prey.
My Bed I loath; nor can it sleep procure;
My festring Wounds no Surgion's hands endure.
My Wounds—But oh! that Word has pierc'd my heart,
The very mention does renew their smart;
My Wounds gape wide, as they wou'd let in Death,
And make quick Passage for my flitting Breath:
Nor can they ev'n the lightest touch endure,
But dread the Hand that wou'd attempt their Cure.
For, Lord, my Wounds are from the Darts of Sin,
That rage and torture my griev'd Soul within:
Here an hydropick thirst of Riches reigns,
And their Pride's flatuous humour swells my Veins:
Next frantick Passion plays the Tyrant's part;
And Loves ov'r-spreading Cancer gnaws my Heart.
Oft to the learn'd I made my suff'rings known,
Oft try'd their Skill, but found Redress from none:
Not all the virtue of Bethesda's Pool,
Without thy help, could ever make me whole.
Then to what healing Altar shou'd I flie,
But that whose prostrate Victims never die?
To Thee, Health-giver to the World, I kneel,
Who most can'st pity what thy self didst feel:
There's no sound part in all my tortur'd Soul:
But, if thou wilt, Lord, thou cast make me whole.
See where, to cruel Thieves, a helpless prey,
Wounded and rob'd I'm left upon the way.
O Good Samaritan! my Heart revive
With Wine; my Wounds some Balm of Gilead give.
Then take me home, lest if I here remain,
My Foes return, and make thy Succour vain.
The very mention does renew their smart;
My Wounds gape wide, as they wou'd let in Death,
And make quick Passage for my flitting Breath:
Nor can they ev'n the lightest touch endure,
But dread the Hand that wou'd attempt their Cure.
For, Lord, my Wounds are from the Darts of Sin,
That rage and torture my griev'd Soul within:
Here an hydropick thirst of Riches reigns,
And their Pride's flatuous humour swells my Veins:
Next frantick Passion plays the Tyrant's part;
And Loves ov'r-spreading Cancer gnaws my Heart.
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Oft try'd their Skill, but found Redress from none:
Not all the virtue of Bethesda's Pool,
Without thy help, could ever make me whole.
Then to what healing Altar shou'd I flie,
But that whose prostrate Victims never die?
To Thee, Health-giver to the World, I kneel,
Who most can'st pity what thy self didst feel:
There's no sound part in all my tortur'd Soul:
But, if thou wilt, Lord, thou cast make me whole.
See where, to cruel Thieves, a helpless prey,
Wounded and rob'd I'm left upon the way.
O Good Samaritan! my Heart revive
With Wine; my Wounds some Balm of Gilead give.
Then take me home, lest if I here remain,
My Foes return, and make thy Succour vain.
21
The whole World, from East to West, lies very sick; but to cure this very sick World, there descends an Omnipotent Physician, who humbled himself even to the Assumption of a mortal Body, as if he had gone into the Bed of the Diseased.
Aug. de Verb. Dom. Serm. 55. cap. 55.
| Pia Desideria | |