Cowley, Abraham . The Third Part of the Works of Mr. Abraham Cowley
Being his Six Books of Plants
Electronic Text Center, University of Virginia Library
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HOw this Pretender for no Medicine good,
Can be allow'd the Son of Physick's God, [Latin: 860]
I leave to the wise Judgment of the Court:
With better proofs my Title I support,
Jove was my Sire, to me he did impart
(Who best deserv'd) the Empire of the Heart.
Let him with Golden Aspect please the Eye, 820
A Sov'raign Cordial to the Heart am I.
Not Tagus, nor the Treasures of Peru
Thy boasted Soil, can Grief like me, subdue.
Should Jove once more descend in Golden show'r,
Not Jove cou'd prove so Cordial as my Flow'r.
One Golden Coat thou hast, I do confess,
That's all, poor Plant, thou hast no change of Dress.
Of sev'ral hue I sev'ral Garments wear,
Nor can the Rose her self with me compare:
The gaudy Tulip and the Emony
Seem richly coated when compar'd with thee.
View both their Stocks, my Ward-robe has the same, [Latin: 880]
The very Croesus I of Colours am.
Rich but in Dress they are, in Virtue poor,
Or keep like Misers to themselves their store,
Most lib'rally my Bounty I impart,
'Tis joy to mine to ease anothers Heart.
Some Flowers for Physick serve, and some for Smell,
For Beauty some -- but I in all excell.
While thus she spake, her Voice, Scent, Dress and Port, 840
Majestick all, drew Rev'rence from the Court:
Well might th'Inferiour Plants concern'd appear,
The very Rose her self began to fear:
Her next of kin a fair and num'rous Host,
Of their Alliance to Carnatian boast.
Then divers more, who, though to fields remov'd
From Garden-Gilly-Flower their Lineage prov'd.
They of the Saffron-house next took their Course,
Of dwarfish Stature, but gigantick force;
Led by their Purple Chief, who dares appear,
And stand the shock of the declining Year.
In Autumn's stormy Months he shews his head, [Latin: 900]
When tainted Skies their baneful Venom shed.
He scarce begins to speak, when looking round,
The Colchic Tribe amongst his Train he found;182
Hence ye profane, he cry'd, nor bring disgrace
On my fair Title, I disown your Race.
Repaair to Circe's or Medea's Tent,
When on some fatal mischief they are bent,
To baneful Pontus fly, seek kindred there, 860
You who of Flowers, Earth, Heav'n, the scandal are.
Thus did he storm, for tho by Nature mild,
Against the poys'nous Race his Choler boil'd.
His sacred Virtue the Intruders knew,
And from th'Assembly consciously withdrew.
 Meadow Saffron, called, Bulbus Strangulatorius and Ephemeron lethale.