What skilled physician owns the art
To heal the hurt done to my heart
By Daphne, mischief of Diana’s train,
Who wickedly doth joy her in my pain ?
She twits my tears, she scouts my sighs — –
O! would some healer improvise
A herbal charm from Daphne’s laurel leaf,
A philter that might drive away my grief!
In this rare philter there should be
My Daphne’s maddening mockery.
The glint of all her swirling burnished hair,
The perfume thralling of her presence rare,
The glory of red mocking lips
That wound the swain their dew who sips,
The bloom of blushes on her marble flesh
When love-thoughts force her blood beyond Its mesh,
The spice of all her merry taunts
When she my rival’s favors flaunts.
All, all that bitter is or fatal-sweet
In Daphne — all should in this philter meet!
Sir Medicus, have you the skill
This prescript difficult to fill?
Have you e ‘er learned the all of healing arts,
The trick of curing Cupid’s wounds in hearts ?
Because of Daphne’s ways I ail
And wander earth forlorn and pale.
And I would have your aid to make me well,
To make me proof against her wounding spell!
What alkaloid have you to pit
Against the germ in Daphne’s wit.
Which poisons me with sad, yet sweet, unrest
And grows to flaming fever in my breast?
Have you a lymph to immunize
My heart against my Daphne’s eyes?
Alas! Sir Medicus, I greatly fear
Your vaunted skill is wholly helpless here,
And that your drugs nor kill nor cure!
Ah well 1 One other aid is sure :
Adieu. Sir Medicus Here have your pay-
King Hymen’s torch shall fire my ills away!
By: H. A. Van Fredenberg
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