De venis mesaraicis obstructis ipsarumque ita affectarum curatione Theses sive Pronunciata LX

Slipped down: he does not cease to benefit us, and to interpret all the precepts of sacred medicine clearly and fully, and most gravely and sweetly. You see, most honorable man, or at least you are able to see by the danger made in the labyrinthine lecture halls, that Nature is greatest in the smallest things, and kaì tò mégison ph’elachísō the greatest thing resides in the least. The matter is the same in mesaraic obstructions, which are thought to be greatest when they are smallest, and existing just as frequently as they are most dangerous, yet they lack their own peculiar chapter among the doctors. But truly, since I have always approached very closely to those who have written that more perish from a blocked mesentery than by the sword, by fever, or by plague, I have resurrected from the ashes this hypóthesin hypothesis that acts as if it were struggling with oblivion, and I have attempted to add to it the head, the chest, the belly, and even the limbs. I wish it had been permitted with the same effort to confer life, so that it might run out to our people, and be of use to them eventually, as they labor for the most part under mesenteric vices. For whom, especially among the rich and opulent, do you see whose abdomen does not protrude like the insatiable belly of a cask? Do you ask for the reason? It is at the ready. The little mesaraic veins are obstructed. For how could it happen otherwise, when they gorge themselves like gluttons on pheasants, garden warblers, partridges, peacocks, and their own cranes, and are sodden with yesterday's wine, as the Comic poet speaks? While I saw these vices in our English (who are most abundant in all things, by the divine blessing of peace), how often have I asked the Colchian and the Phasian references to the origins of pheasants to keep their pheasants for themselves, and not permit them to fly to our people to corrupt them and further irritate their allurements? How frequently and in vain did I wish that the more honest age could be brought back, about which Ovid sang:

The fish still swam for those peoples without fraud.
And oysters were safe in their own shells.
Nor did Latium know what rich Ionia provides,
Nor the bird that rejoices in Pygmy blood.

Since, therefore, in this vertigo of all ages and morals, Gluttony creeps through our fatherland, not to say the entire world,