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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| II. |
| III. |
| IV. | IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| 2. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| 3. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
 | Pia Desideria |  |
23
IV.
Look upon my adversity and misery, and forgive me all my sin,
Psal. xxv. 17.
Can all my Suff'rings no Compassion move,
And wou'dst thou yet perswade me thou dost love?
'T has oft been said, believe it he that will!
That those who Love, each others torment feel.
Canst thou behold my Grief, and seek no way
For my redress? True Love brooks no delay.
See what a servile Yoak my Neck sustains,
Whose shame is more afflicting than its pains!
With any Task my Soul wou'd be content,
But one whose Scandal is a Punishment.
Had my Afflictions any parallel,
Taught by Example, I shou'd bear them well:
And 'twou'd, amidst my Woes, bring some Relief,
To have more shoulders to support the Grief:
For bravest Heroes oft have felt the weight
Of their injurious Step-dame Fortune's Hate.
Thus our fam'd Martyr, in his Murd'rers stead,
Bow'd to a Rebel Ax His Sacred Head;
While His great Son, a Prince of high Renown,
The Heir of His bright Father's Name and Crown,
In an obscure, ignoble Banishment,
Did His own Fate, and Rebels Guilt prevent.
Sad Instances of Man's uncertain State!
Yet 'tis no Crime to be unfortunate:
But my base Slav'ry is alone my blame,
And less to be bewail'd with Tears, than Shame;
And to a heavier sum my Woes amount,
Since I must place them to my own account.
Like captiv'd Sampson I am driv'n about,
The drudge and scorn of an insulting Rout.
Around I draw the heavy restless Wheel,
And find my endless Task beginning still:
Within this Circle by strange Magick bound,
I'm still in Motion, yet I gain no Ground.
And wou'dst thou yet perswade me thou dost love?
'T has oft been said, believe it he that will!
That those who Love, each others torment feel.
Canst thou behold my Grief, and seek no way
For my redress? True Love brooks no delay.
See what a servile Yoak my Neck sustains,
Whose shame is more afflicting than its pains!
With any Task my Soul wou'd be content,
But one whose Scandal is a Punishment.
Had my Afflictions any parallel,
Taught by Example, I shou'd bear them well:
And 'twou'd, amidst my Woes, bring some Relief,
To have more shoulders to support the Grief:
For bravest Heroes oft have felt the weight
Of their injurious Step-dame Fortune's Hate.
Thus our fam'd Martyr, in his Murd'rers stead,
Bow'd to a Rebel Ax His Sacred Head;
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The Heir of His bright Father's Name and Crown,
In an obscure, ignoble Banishment,
Did His own Fate, and Rebels Guilt prevent.
Sad Instances of Man's uncertain State!
Yet 'tis no Crime to be unfortunate:
But my base Slav'ry is alone my blame,
And less to be bewail'd with Tears, than Shame;
And to a heavier sum my Woes amount,
Since I must place them to my own account.
Like captiv'd Sampson I am driv'n about,
The drudge and scorn of an insulting Rout.
Around I draw the heavy restless Wheel,
And find my endless Task beginning still:
Within this Circle by strange Magick bound,
I'm still in Motion, yet I gain no Ground.
O! that some usual Labour were injoyn'd,
And not the Tyrant Vice enslav'd my mind!
No weight of Chains cou'd grieve my captive Hands,
Like the loath'd Drudg'ry of its base Commands;
By this a double mis'ry I contract,
Ev'n I condemn the hated Ills I act.
Yet of my Chains I'm not so weary grown,
But that I still am putting others on.
For Sin has always this attending Curse,
To back the first Transgression with a worse:
This to my sorrow, I too often find!
Yet no Experience warns my heedless mind.
Thus Vice and Virtue do my Soul divide,
Like a Ship tost between the Wind and Tide.
Pleasure, the Bawd to Vice, here draws me in,
There, Grief, its Follow'r, pulls me back from Sin:
Yet Pleasure oft comes Conqueror from the Field,
Whilst I to Vice, inglorious Homage yield.
Tho' Grief does still with Vice in triumph ride,
Plac'd like a Slave by that great Conqu'ror's side.
Thus Vice and Virtue have alternate sway,
While I, with endless labour, Both obey:
And to increase my pains, as if too small,
Thy heavy hand comes in the rear of all,
And with deep piercing strokes corrects me more,
For what was punish'd in it self before.
Thus guilty Souls in Hell are scourg'd for Sin;
Their never-ending Pains thus still begin.
And not the Tyrant Vice enslav'd my mind!
No weight of Chains cou'd grieve my captive Hands,
Like the loath'd Drudg'ry of its base Commands;
By this a double mis'ry I contract,
Ev'n I condemn the hated Ills I act.
Yet of my Chains I'm not so weary grown,
But that I still am putting others on.
For Sin has always this attending Curse,
To back the first Transgression with a worse:
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Yet no Experience warns my heedless mind.
Thus Vice and Virtue do my Soul divide,
Like a Ship tost between the Wind and Tide.
Pleasure, the Bawd to Vice, here draws me in,
There, Grief, its Follow'r, pulls me back from Sin:
Yet Pleasure oft comes Conqueror from the Field,
Whilst I to Vice, inglorious Homage yield.
Tho' Grief does still with Vice in triumph ride,
Plac'd like a Slave by that great Conqu'ror's side.
Thus Vice and Virtue have alternate sway,
While I, with endless labour, Both obey:
And to increase my pains, as if too small,
Thy heavy hand comes in the rear of all,
And with deep piercing strokes corrects me more,
For what was punish'd in it self before.
Thus guilty Souls in Hell are scourg'd for Sin;
Their never-ending Pains thus still begin.
Canst thou, unkind! behold my wretched Fate?
Canst thou behold, and not commiserate?
Look on, O see if causless I complain!
O hold thy Hand, and mitigate my Pain!
Canst thou behold, and not commiserate?
Look on, O see if causless I complain!
O hold thy Hand, and mitigate my Pain!
I suppose the World is called a Mill, because it is turn'd about on the Wheels of Time, and grinds and crushes those that most admire it.
Aug. in Psal. xxxvi.
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