Emblemes by Fra: Quarles

III. PSAL. VI.II. Have mercy, Lord, upon me, for I am weake, O Lord heale me, for my bones are vexed.

Soule. Iesu••

Soul.

AH, Son of David, help:

Ies.

What sinfull crie Implores the Son of David?

Soul.

It is I:

Ies.

Who art thou?

Soul.

Oh, a deepely wounded brest That's heavy laden, and would faine have rest.

Ies.

I have no scraps, and dogs must not be fed Like houshold Children, with the childrens bread:

Soul.

True Lord; yet tolerate a hungry whelp To lick their crums: O, Son of David, help.

Ies.

Poore Soule, what ail'st thou?

Soul.

O I burne, I fry▪ I cannot rest; I know not where to fly To find some case; I turne my blubber'd face From man to man; I roule from place to place, T'avoid my tortures, to obtaine reliefe, But still am dogg'd and haunted with my griefe: My midnight torments call the sluggish light, And when the morning's come, they woo the night.

Ies.

Surcease thy teares, and speake thy free desires;

Soul.

Quench, quench my flames, & swage these scorching fires

Ies.

Canst thou believe my hand can cure thy griefe?

Soul.

Lord, I believe; Lord, helpe my unbeliefe:

Ies.

Hold forth thy Arme, and let my fingers try Thy Pulse; where (chiefly) does thy torment lie?

Soul.

From head to foot; it raignes in ev'ry part, But playes the selfe-law'd Tyrant in my heart.

Ies.

Canst thou digest? canst relish wholesome food? How stands thy tast?

Soul.

To nothing that is good: All sinfull trash, and earths unsav'ry stuffe I can digest, and relish well enough:

Ies.

Is not thy blood as cold as hot, by turnes?

Soul.

Cold to what's good; to what is bad, it burnes:

Ies.

How old's thy griefe?

Soul.

I tooke it at the Fall With eating Fruit.

Ies.

'Tis Epidemicall; Thy blood's infected, and th'Infection sprung From a bad Liver: 'Tis a feaver strong. And full of death, unlesse, with present speed, A veine be op'ned; Thou must die, or bleed.

Soul.

O I am faint, and spent: That Launce that shall Let forth my blood, lets forth my life withall; My soule wants Cordials, and has greater need Of blood, than (being spent so farre) to bleed: I faint already: If I bleed, I die.

Ies.

'Tis either thou must bleed, sick soule, or I: My blood's a Cordiall. He that sucks my veines, Shall cleanse his owne, and conquer greater paines Than these: Cheere up: this precious Blood of mine Shall cure thy Griefe; my heart shall bleed for thine: Believe, and view me with a faithfull eye; Thy soule shall neither languish, bleed, nor die.

S. AUGUST. lib. 10. Confess.

Lord, Be mercifull unto me: Ah me: Behold, I hide not my wounds. Thou art a Physician, and I am sicke; Thou art merci∣full, and I am miserable.

S. GREG. in Pastoral.

O Wisedome, with how sweet an art does thy wine and oyle re∣store health to my healthlesse soule! How powerfully mercifull, how mercifully powerfull art thou! Powerfull, for me, Mercifull, to me!

EPIG. 3.

Canst thou be sick, and such a Doctor by? Thou canst not live, unlesse thy Doctor die! Strange kind of griefe, that finds no med'cine good To swage her paines, but the Physicians Blood!