Saturday Farmer's Market - A Post in Time of Plague

Created by Heather at Capricious Reader, and now hosted by Chris at Stuff as Dreams are Made on.

UPDATE from Last Week:   

One of the things I love about my blog is that the upkeep is relatively easy. A little time spent doing what I enjoy, reading poetry and looking at beautiful things, yields so much for me to share with you.

But the Saturday Farmer's Market posts are a different story altogether. Most of them require actual physical labor of one sort or another. Well . . .



It has been a rough week and I'm afraid I haven't much to share. You see, late last week I developed a pain in my abdomen on the lower left side. Not much of interest resides there, so when it had finally incapacitated me, I knew just what it was.

An incubating alien had taken up residence in my abdomen and was in the process of digging its way out. Unfortunately, hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of medical equipment and expertise failed to locate said alien neonate.

My doctor, to cover up his incompetence, declared that I have an infection, possibly diverticulitis, and put me on antibiotics. The alien seems to have a sensitivity to antibiotics, as the intense pain is beginning to subside. (lucky for my doctor)

But the upshot of all this is that I have done no work in the garden this week. I have barely even been able to water. And with all the new projects I have created for myself . . .

Anyway, as I seem to be (at least temporarily) on the mend, I should have something new for you next week. Until then, I will leave you with a poem.

A Litany in Time of Plague
- Thomas Nashe

Adieu, farewell, earth's bliss;
This world uncertain is;
Fond are life's lustful joys;
Death proves them all but toys;
None from his darts can fly;
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!

Rich men, trust not in wealth,
Gold cannot buy you health;
Physic himself must fade.
All things to end are made,
The plague full swift goes by;
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!

Beauty is but a flower
Which wrinkles will devour;
Brightness falls from the air;
Queens have died young and fair;
Dust hath closed Helen's eye.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!

Strength stoops unto the grave,
Worms feed on Hector brave;
Swords may not fight with fate,
Earth still holds open her gate.
"Come, come!" the bells do cry.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!

Wit with his wantonness
Tasteth death's bitterness;
Hell's executioner
Hath no ears for to hear
What vain art can reply.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!

Haste, therefore, each degree,
To welcome destiny;
Heaven is our heritage,
Earth but a player's stage;
Mount we unto the sky.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!

 Silence by john henry fuseli