Classic Poem

The Fiery Darts of Satan stob my heart.
— — His Punyards Thrusts are deep, and venom'd too.
His Arrows wound my thoughts, Words, Works, each part
— — They all a bleeding ly by th' Stobs, and rue.
— — His Aire I breath in, poison doth my Lungs.
— — Hence come Consumptions, Fevers, Head pains: Turns.

Yea, Lythargy, the Apoplectick Stroke:
— — The Catochee, Soul Blindness, Surdity,
Ill tongue, Mouth Ulcers, Frog, the Quinsie Throate
— — The Palate Fallen, Wheezings, Pleurisy.
— — Heart Ach, the Syncopee, bad stomach tricks
— — Gaul Tumors, Liver grown; spleen evills Cricks.

The Kidny toucht, The Iliak, Colick Griefe
— — The Ricats, Dropsy, Gout, the Scurvy, Sore
The Miserere Mei. O Reliefe
— — I want and would, and beg it at thy doore.
— — O! Sun of Righteousness Thy Beams bright, Hot
— — Rafter a Doctors, and a Surgeons Shop.