A poem upon a laurel leaf viris admodum Colendis, publicæ scholæ, vulgò dictæ, Harrow super montem, gubernatoribus ... / hoc qualecunquæ poema Guilielmus Bolton.

Upon the LAUREL, sacred to APOLLO, whose Leaves I made use of (by the Ad∣vice of Mr. Fisher, and the repeated Com∣mands of the Honourable the Lady Gerard) which have often cured me of a Rheu∣matism.

Paraphrastically translated by T. F. Gent.

THE Gods and Goddesses, with joint Consent, Met once (as Fame reports) in Parliament, And there dispos'd, by high and firm Decrees, Of all Things; and, amongst the rest, of Trees. Jove made Dodona's Noble Oak his Choice, His Right being first to an Elective Voice.

The Mother-Goddess took the lofty Pine. The fruitful Olive was, Minerva, thine. And jolly Baccus chose the spreading Vine.

Sacred t' Alcides was the Poplar Tree: The Myrtle, Beauteous Queen of Love, to thee. Let all the Grove turn round into a Ring, And bowing low, salute thy Myrtle King. 'Twa•• ••ade for Rule, tho' not for Empire fit By Native Worth, yet by thy Choice of it. Apollo laid his too-bright Glories down, And wreath'd about his Head a Laurel Crown, Loving much less to be in Sun shine seen, Than clad in new and everlasting Green. Jove turn'd about his Head, and smiling said, Now, now you have enjoy'd the flying Maid. Most thought the thing ridiculous and odd, A Choice too foolish for so wise a God; And all did Pallas and Lyaeus praise, Who from their Trees both Wine and Oil could raise.

I wonder'd likewise at an Act so vain, And feard the God had prejudic'd his Brain; And sought a thousand Reasons in my Mind, T' excuse the Choice, but could no Reason find. I knew the Laurel had been always worn, And still the Heads of Poets did adorn; But since the Rhiming Tribe are always poor, (For Father Homer begg'd from Door to Door) The Laurel was for Mercury more fit, As th' Emblem both of Poverty and Wit. At last, thought I, since Phoebus has the Art, As God of Physick, Med'cine to impart, Perhaps by Laurel he some way has found To cure an high Disease, or heal a Wound. I ask't the Doctors, whether it were so; Who smiling at my Question, answered, No.

But wiser Fisher better Comfort gave, Fisher the Name of Second Luke may have; Fisher, that can both Souls and Bodies save.

Consult Physicians, Friend, said he, no more, But take Apollo's much more bounteous Store; He with a quick and all discerning Eye The secret Vertues did of Laurel spie.

All may enjoy alike his Beams and Tree; He scatters both his Blessings, frank and free; Gives the best Physick, and yet takes no Fee.

Dost thou not know, (thou canst not chuse but know) How our dear Friend was wrack't a while ago? * 1.1 How your Disease did all his Limbs surprize? A Torture, which almost all Art defies. Yet he no sooner did these Leaves apply, But he cry'd out aloud, I will not die. I feel, I change this heavy lump of Earth, And, Aeson like, receive a second Birth. This, and much more, my dear Friend Fisher told, And then began its Virtues to unfold. I stupid, hardly heard the Words he spake, Nor minded Counsel, I refus'd to take:

'Till by a Noble Lady order'd thrice, I yielded to her safe and wise Advice. The Prophetess affirm'd, th' Effects were sure, And both at once foretold and made the Cure. Tell me, my Muse, for thou alone canst tell, What Magick in the beauteous Sex does dwell? What charming Witchcraft do the Fair invent, To force, and yet persuade us to consent? Blest be the Sex, so apt and prone to save, And blest the Tongue, which those Injunctions gave. What diff'rent Gifts do I from you receive, From those bestow'd by my first Mother Eve? She brought in Death by one forbidden Tree, You by another do new Life decree; And by an Act, which nothing can confute, Have made the Leaf more noble than the Fruit: For nothing, when I'm sick, can that excel, Which but to use and try, is to be well. That healing Herb was something like this Tree, Which Alexander did in Vision see, And did his Health to Ptolemy restore, When the Physicians had quite gi'n him o're. Rome (which allow'd t' each mighty Conqueror To plant a Laurel tree before his Door) Mistook its Property, and plac'd it ill; The Laurel is to cure, and not to kill. And therefore Phoebus values it as good, Rather for saving, than for spilling Blood. Now, O Physicians, torture whom you please With nauseous Potions, worse than the Disease. Who'll now esteem those Medicines you impart, When one poor Leaf can baffle all your Art. Mock as ye will, ye have my leave to grin; I'll trust the Proverb, Let them laugh that win: And will that safer Physick still pursue, Which gives me Health, and saves my Money too.

Notes

• * 1.1

  Monsieur Meur.