Poetic Aids
Too long the wise Commons have been in debate About money and conscience, these trifles of state While dangerous grievances daily increase, And the subject can't riot in safety and peace (Rochester)
Until last week, that is, when there was a surge of genuine panic about Aids, attested by the number of doctors, politi- cians and others (whose attentions are as worrying as their intentions are soothing) who set out to convince the heterosexuals of this country that they have nothing to fear. These authorities are in a difficult position: panic helps no one, but fear is in this case quite justified. Fear of a hideous death may well prove the only means of reforming the homosexual promiscuity that has done so much to spread the disease; while the purely financial consequences of Aids should worry any government. The New England Journal of Medicine has suggested $500 million as the cost for treating Aids victims in America next year; even at the inflated prices charged for American medicine, that is a lot of money. The best we can hope may come of the disease is that it might produce, as syphilis once did, some poetry of Rochester's quality:
Is it just that with death cruel love should conspire, And our tarses be burnt by our hearts taking fire?
There's an end to communion if humble believers Are damned in the cup like unworthy receivers.