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 |  |
I.
I charge you, O Daughters of Jerusalem, if you
find my Beloved, that you tell him that I am sick of Love,
Cant. v. 8.
Blest Residents in those bright Courts above
Those Starry Temples where you Sing and Love:
By sacred Verse I you adjure and bind,
If by a happy Chance my Love you find;
To him my strong, my restless Passion bear,
And gently whisper't in his sacred Ear;
How I each Moment in soft Sighs Expire,
And Languish in the Flames of my Desire.
How I am scorch'd in Love's fierce torrid Zone,
As withering Flow'rs before the raging Sun.
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He shot himself into my Love-sick Breast;
Thro'Blood and Bones the Shaft like Lightning stole,
And with strange Infl'ence seiz'd my melting Soul:
Now in a Flame unquenchable I burn,
And feel my Breast t'another Ætna turn.
If a more full Account he wou'd receive,
(For Lovers always are inquisitive:)
Tell him how Pale, how Lanquishing I look,
And how I fainted when I wou'd have spoke.
If he enquires what pace my Fever moves,
O! tell him, I no Fever feel, but Love's:
Or if he asks what danger of my Death,
Tell him—I cou'd not tell, for want of Breath.
Tell him no Message you from me Relate,
But gasping Sounds, that spoke approaching Fate
Yet, if he questions how in Death I look,
Say how my Beauty has my Face forsook.
Say how I'm strangely all Transform'd with Woe
That he my Suff'rings and their Cause may know.
Tell him I lie seiz'd with a deadly Swound,
A Bloodless Corps stretch'd on the naked Ground.
Tell him my Eyes swim round my dizzy Head,
And on my Breast my feeble Hands are spread,
The Coral of my Lips grow sickly pale,
And on my Cheeks the withering Roses fail;
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And their Decay shews Nature failing too:
Nor any Signs express remaining Life,
But the worst Symptoms, Sighs that vent my Grief.
And yet I cannot any Reason feign,
Why, tho' unhurt, so often I complain;
Unless some treach'rous Sigh unruly prove,
Betray my blushing Soul, and own 'tis Love.
This, this was sure my Sorrows only cause;
I lov'd, yet knew not what a Lover was.
This from my Breast extorted frequent Sighs,
And prest the Tears from my o'erflowing Eyes.
This was the cause, that when I strove to frame
Remote Discourse, it ended with his Name.
Oh! then —
Tell the lov'd Object of my Thought and Eye,
How I his Martyr and his Victim die.
Distill'd in Love's Alembick, I Expire,
Parch'd up, like Roses, by too warm a Fire;
Or dry'd, like Lilies, which have long in vain
Begg'd the refreshment of a gentle Rain.
Tell him, the cause of all my Grief will prove,
Without his help, my Death; for, oh! 'tis Love.
Tell him, That I am sick of Love, through the great Desire I have of seeing his Face: I endure the weariness of Life, and I can hardly bear the Delay of my present Exile.
Rupert in Cant.
| Pia Desideria | |