Phil Shöenfelt: A Dialogue Between The Soul And Body

/Phil Shöenfelt/
/text: Andrew Marvell (1621-1678)/

O who shall, from this Dungeon, raise?
A Soul inslav'd so many wayes?
With bolts of Bones, that fetter'd stands
In Feet; and manacled in Hands
Here blinded with an Eye; and there
Deaf with the drumming of an Ear
A Soul hung up, as t'were in Chains
Of Nerves, and Arteries, and Veins
Tortur'd, besides each other part
In a vain Head, and double Heart

O who shall me deliver whole
From bonds of this Tyrannic Soul?
Which, stretcht upright, impales me so
That mine own Precipice I go
And warms and moves this needles Frame
(A fever could but do the same)
And, wanting where its spight to try
Has made me live to let me dye
A Body that could never rest
Since this ill Spirit it possest

What Magick could me thus confine
Within anothers Grief to pine?
Where whatsoever it complain
I feel, that cannot feel, the pain
And all my Care its self employes
That to preserve, which me destroys
Constrain'd not only to indure
Diseases, but, whats worse, the Cure
And ready oft the Port to gain
Am Shipwrackt into Health again

But Physick yet could never reach
The Maladies Thou me dost teach
Whom first the Cramp of Hope does Tear
And then the Palsie Shakes of Fear
The Pestilence of Love does heat
Or Hatred's hidden Ulcer eat
Joy's chearful Madness does perplex
Or Sorrow's other Madness vex
Which Knowledge forces me to know
And Memory will not forgoe
What but a Soul could have the wit
To build me up for Sin so fit?
So Architecs do square and hew
Green Trees that in the Forest grew