Linguistic DNA - Concept Modelling Demonstrator

Word A	Word B	Word C	Word D	Occurrence	Frequency Band	MI	MI Band	Prominent
mercy_n	full_a	lord_n	psal_n	2,435	5	7.5110	4	false

ID	Title	Author	Corrected Date of Publication (TCP Date of Publication)	STC	Words	Pages
A44939	Pia desideria, or, Divine addresses in three books : illustrated with XLVII copper-plates / written in Latine by Herm. Hugo ; Englished by Edm. Arwaker.; Pia desideria. English	Hugo, Herman, 1588-1629.; Arwaker, Edmund, d. 1730.; Sturt, John, 1658-1730.	1686 (1686)	Wing H3350; ESTC R19094	62,987	283

that Fools are num'rous Wise-men few Nor was the prudent Moses wish in vain When he of Mans destruction did complain O that unthinking Mortals wou'd be wise And place their End before their heedful eyes Then Sins short pleasures they wou'd soon despise Not yield like Wax to ev'ry Stamp of Vice Wou'd any but a strange besotted Rout Th' Existence of a God deny or doubt These that in sin they may uncheck'd go on Perswade themselves to a belief of None Our very Crimes t' improve our Folly tend And we 're infatuate e're we dare offend Nor does the growing frenzy here give o're But from this Ill runs headlong on to more We Castles build in this inferior Air As if to have Eternal Beings here â—t when unthought-of Death shall snatch us hence â—e then shall own the fond Improvidence â—ith endless and unprofitable toil â—e strive t' enrich and beautifie the Soil â—is Soil which we must leave at last behind â— those for whom our pains were ne're design'd How does our toil resemble Childrens play â—hen they erect an Edifice of Clay â—ow idly busie and imploy'd they are â—ere some bring Straw there others Sticks prepare â—is loads his Cart with Dirt that in a Shell â—ings Water that it may be temper'd well â—nd in their work themselves they fondly pride â—hile Age the childish Fabrick does deride â— on our Work Heav'n with contempt looks down â—nd with a breath our Babel-Tow'r's o'rethrown What strange desire of Gems what thirst of Gold â—hose drops of Rain congeal'd that ripned Mold â—et these so much mens nobler Souls debase â—hat they their bliss in such mean trifles place Ah! foolish Ign'rants can your choice approâ— No more exalted Objects of your love That all your time in their pursuit you spend As if Salvation did on them depend Heav'n may be purchas'd at an easie rate But oh how few bid any thing for That Unthinking Sots that Earth to Heav'n prefer And fading Joys to endless Glory there The Crime of such an inconsid'rate choice Ought not pretend to Pardon ev'n in Boys For They from Counters currant Money know Almost as soon as they have learnt to go But Men oh shame prize counterfeit delightâ— Before the Joys to which kind Heav'n invites Oh! for some Artist to retrieve their sense E're more degrees of Folly they commence But by Heav'ns piercing Eye we are descry'd Which does our sins with Follies Mantle hide He 's pleas'd to wink at Errors too in me And seeing seems as tho he did not see He knows I 've but a slender stock of Wit â—nd want a Guardian too to manage it â— then some kind Protection Lord assign â—his Ideot Soul But 't will be best in Thine Chrysost in Joann Hom. 4. They are no better than Fools who are ever as it were dreaming of earthly things and of short continuance III. Haue mercy upon me O Lord for I am Weak O Lord heal me for my bones are vexed Psal 6. 2 III. â—ave mercy upon me O Lord for I am weak O Lord heal me for my bones are vexed Psal 6. 2. SHall my just grief be querulous or mute Full of Disease of Physick destitute â—ought thy Love so constant heretofore â—at Vows were needless to confirm me more â—d dost thou now absent and slight my pain â—at fault of mine has caus'd this cold Disdain O blest Physitian of my love-sick Soul â—ose sight alone will make thy Patient whole â—ou who hast caus'd canst thou forget my grief â—ich only from its Author seeks relief Shou'd they whose Art gave dying Fame new breath â—d rescu'd their surviving names from Death â—y in whose sight no bold Disease durst stand â— trembling vanish'd at their least command They who each Simples sov'rein Virtue knew And to their ends cou'd well apply them too Shou'd they their skill in tedious Consult try All all wou'd fail to ease my misery All their Prescriptions without Thine are vain Thine only sute the nature of my pain Thou who hast caus'd canst thou forget my griâ— Which only from its Author seeks relief See! my parch'd tongue my bodies flame declaâ— And my quick Pulse proclaims intestine Wars While so much blood 's profusely spent within That not one drop can in my cheeks be seen And the same Pulse that gave the brisk Allarms Beats a dead March in my dejected Arms My Doctors sigh and shrugging take their leave And me to Heav'n and a cold Grave bequeath While more than they the fatal sense I feel Of my lost health and their succesless skill What can the Patient hope when sad despair Discourages the lost Physician 's care â—e subtle Poyson creeps through all my Veins â—nd in my Bones the fierce Infection reigns â—y drooping head flies to my hands for aid â—t by the feeble Props is soon betray'd â—ow my last breath is ready to expire â—nd I must next to Deaths dark Cell retire â—ainly I strive my other pains to tell â—or they alas are unaccountable â— this forlorn unpity'd state I lie â—hile he who can relieve me le ts me die â—y Face is strange and out of knowledg grown â—v'n I am scarce perswaded 't is my own â—y Eyes have shrunk for shelter in my head â—nd on my Cheek the Rose hangs pale and dead â—o pow'r cou'd drive the fierce Disease away â—or force the plundring Conqu'rour from his prey My Wounds But oh that word has pierc'd my heart â—he very mention does renew their smart â—y Wounds gape wide as they wou'd let in Death â—nd make quick passage for my flitting breath Nor can they ev'n the lightest touch endure But dread the hand that wou'd attempt their Câ— For Lord my Wounds are from the Darts of â— That rage and torture my griev'd Soul within Here a hydropick thirst of Riches reigns And there Prides flatuous humor puffs my veins Next frantick Passion plays the Tyrants part And Loves o're-spreading Cancer gnaws my heaâ— Oft' to the learn'd I made my suff'rings known Oft' try'd their skill but found redress from none Not all the virtue of Bethesda's Pool Without thy help could ever make me whole Then to what healing Altar shou'd I fly But that whose prostrate Victims never die To Thee Health-giver to the world I kneel Who most canst pity what thy self didst feel There 's no sound part in all my tortur'd Soul But if thou wilt Lord thou canst make me whole See how by Thieves I spoil'd and wounded am Forget not then thy good Samaritan My fainting Spirits with rich Wine revive And for my Wounds some Balm of Gilead give Then take me home lest if I here remain My Foes return and make thy succour vain Aug. de Verb. Dom. Serm. 55. cap. 55 The whole World from East to West lies very sick but to cure this very sick World there descends an Omnipotent Physician who humbled himself even to the Assumption of a mortal body as if he had gone into the bed of the diseased IV. Look

Selected quad for the lemma: mercy_n

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