A Song to Fever
'Tis I who lost by the wrestling between myself and the crone; she took from me the pith of my (?) mind; she put the back of my head to earth. My blood and flesh she took from me; she put a wheeze in my chest; an unlucky one for me to meet was the monster; God pursue her with his wrath.
She put confusion in my head and great it was, seeing men dead and alive — the likeness of Hector from Iroy and of the champions who were in the army of Rome; a crone dismal, bent, and swart, who was full of scandal and lies, who plunged me in delirium every moment, who chased my reason away.
Wretchedly spent I autumn on thine account, without thought of reaping or binding, my head low as I lay bruised and ill with weariness in my bones: my bones were as weary as if they had been lopped off me; thirst was torturing me, and I would drain a river were it ever so great.
A wretched place is the bed of fever — thou dost grow long and grizzled, shaky and weak and long in convalescing, scanty of hair and plentiful of beard: plentiful of beard without allure that gave the mouth an unpleasant look; when drink or food goes in two-thirds stay therein.
Thy coat is empty and unfilled, thy hose wrinkled and badly twisted, thine ankles conspicuous and splayed, nails as long as a wild cat's; bandy legs without sap under the two thighs without strength: they are more flat than round — if grass but touch them they bend.
Thy neck is long and scraggy, thy ribs like the ribs of a creel, shaky hams without vigour, knees scratching each other: pointed knees without strength, they are as swart as bark; thou art as fearful of cold as the cat — 'twere better for death to cut thee off.
The cap twice as big as it was, on top of a wig of hair that is not beautiful, ears not lacking in growth, a head as bare as the centre of the palm: 'twas no gentle companion that left it so bare and bald, that made my body like an osier bush — is not death its counterpart?
Thou art like a drunkard without drinking a drop or eating anything; because there is no strength in thy two hams thou dost sway from side to side like a wicket; thou art a weak sickly one, a paragon of peace without strength; in thine action there is no delight; thou art altogether a sorry sight.
She put confusion in my head and great it was, seeing men dead and alive — the likeness of Hector from Iroy and of the champions who were in the army of Rome; a crone dismal, bent, and swart, who was full of scandal and lies, who plunged me in delirium every moment, who chased my reason away.
Wretchedly spent I autumn on thine account, without thought of reaping or binding, my head low as I lay bruised and ill with weariness in my bones: my bones were as weary as if they had been lopped off me; thirst was torturing me, and I would drain a river were it ever so great.
A wretched place is the bed of fever — thou dost grow long and grizzled, shaky and weak and long in convalescing, scanty of hair and plentiful of beard: plentiful of beard without allure that gave the mouth an unpleasant look; when drink or food goes in two-thirds stay therein.
Thy coat is empty and unfilled, thy hose wrinkled and badly twisted, thine ankles conspicuous and splayed, nails as long as a wild cat's; bandy legs without sap under the two thighs without strength: they are more flat than round — if grass but touch them they bend.
Thy neck is long and scraggy, thy ribs like the ribs of a creel, shaky hams without vigour, knees scratching each other: pointed knees without strength, they are as swart as bark; thou art as fearful of cold as the cat — 'twere better for death to cut thee off.
The cap twice as big as it was, on top of a wig of hair that is not beautiful, ears not lacking in growth, a head as bare as the centre of the palm: 'twas no gentle companion that left it so bare and bald, that made my body like an osier bush — is not death its counterpart?
Thou art like a drunkard without drinking a drop or eating anything; because there is no strength in thy two hams thou dost sway from side to side like a wicket; thou art a weak sickly one, a paragon of peace without strength; in thine action there is no delight; thou art altogether a sorry sight.
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