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 |
 |
|
| 1. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| 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. | II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
 | Pia Desideria |  |
161
II.
Stay me with Flagons, comfort me with Apples, for I am sick of Love,
Cant. ii. 5.
How strangely, Love, dost thou my Will controul?
Thou pleasing Tyrant of my captiv'd Soul!
Oh! wou'dst thou have thy welcom Torments last,
Slacken their Heat, for I consume too fast.
On other Hearts thy fiery Arrows show'r,
For mine (alas!) has now no room for more.
O spare thy own Artill'ry, and my Breath!
For the next Shaft comes wing'd with certain Death:
Oh! I am lost, and from my self estrang'd,
To Love, my Voice; to Love, my Blood is chang'd:
From part to part insensibly he stole,
Till the sly Conqu'ror had subdu'd the whole.
Thou pleasing Tyrant of my captiv'd Soul!
Oh! wou'dst thou have thy welcom Torments last,
Slacken their Heat, for I consume too fast.
On other Hearts thy fiery Arrows show'r,
For mine (alas!) has now no room for more.
O spare thy own Artill'ry, and my Breath!
For the next Shaft comes wing'd with certain Death:
Oh! I am lost, and from my self estrang'd,
To Love, my Voice; to Love, my Blood is chang'd:
From part to part insensibly he stole,
Till the sly Conqu'ror had subdu'd the whole.
Alas! will no one pity my Distress?
Will neither Earth nor Heav'n afford Redress?
Canst Thou, the Author of my Miseries,
Canst Thou behold me with relentless Eyes?
Oh! haste, you bright Inhabitants above,
My Fellow Patients in this Charming Love;
Rifle the Gardens, and disrobe the Fields,
Bring all the Treasure Natures Store-house yields;
Bind fragrant Rose-buds to my Temples first,
Then with cool Apples quench my fiery Thirst.
These may allay the Fever of my Blood.
Oh no! there's nothing, nothing does me good.
Against Loves force what Salve can Roses make,
Since ev'n themselves may hide the pois'nous Snake?
And Apples sure can small assistance give,
In one of them th'Old Serpent did deceive.
O then! to slacken this tormenting Fire,
The Rose of Sharon only I desire:
And for an Apple to asswage my Grief,
Give it, oh! give it from the Tree of Life!
Then strow them gently on my Virgin-Bed!
And as the withering Rose declines it Head,
Compos'd to Death's long Sleep my Rest I'll take,
Dream of my Love, and in his Arms awake.
Will neither Earth nor Heav'n afford Redress?
Canst Thou, the Author of my Miseries,
Canst Thou behold me with relentless Eyes?
162
My Fellow Patients in this Charming Love;
Rifle the Gardens, and disrobe the Fields,
Bring all the Treasure Natures Store-house yields;
Bind fragrant Rose-buds to my Temples first,
Then with cool Apples quench my fiery Thirst.
These may allay the Fever of my Blood.
Oh no! there's nothing, nothing does me good.
Against Loves force what Salve can Roses make,
Since ev'n themselves may hide the pois'nous Snake?
And Apples sure can small assistance give,
In one of them th'Old Serpent did deceive.
O then! to slacken this tormenting Fire,
The Rose of Sharon only I desire:
And for an Apple to asswage my Grief,
Give it, oh! give it from the Tree of Life!
Then strow them gently on my Virgin-Bed!
And as the withering Rose declines it Head,
Compos'd to Death's long Sleep my Rest I'll take,
Dream of my Love, and in his Arms awake.
163
It is certainly a good Languishment, when the Disease is not to Death, but Life, that God may be glorified by it: When that Heat and Fever does not proceed from a consuming, but rather from an improving Fire.
Gislen in Cant. cap. 2.
| Pia Desideria | |