Bridging the Continental divide: neo-Latin and its cultural role in Jacobean Scotland, as seen in the Delitiae Poetarum Scotorum (1637)

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Elegy III: to Doctor Louis Duret, that he relieve the sickness of a quartan fever

Look upon me, glory of the doctors of our age, and relieve limbs oppressed with feverish sorrow. Look upon me, for truly you can, if a single sister from the flock of the Muses has not deceived me with false words. For recently I was parted far hence from the abundant city a - a city to be spoken of more, which the head of the world b loves, where beautiful Orléans weeps over overthrown towers, c where the sky-blue Loire waters fertile fields - when a keen fever assailed my fragile body, wasting sinews and thinning skin: nor was the appetite of the beast sufficiently quenched with let blood, or sated on my innards: neither great cold or heat can soften my stiff body, though they take equal turns at torment. Then I began to plead my case with Phoebus against the impotent Muses, divinities not nearly equal to their own fosterer. And I began to lament to Jupiter with a swan-like voice, who scorned my wretched prayers with deaf ear. And a great many angry words touched the other gods, and sickness and wrath provided the subject-matter, until the Goddess d foretold salvation near at hand, and splendour covered the Goddess from her noble mouth. I saw her, after the gloom of night had dissipated, who prophecied this as her own prophet. 'Put away fear, Maitland, our faithful cultivator, for a skiff bearing salvation floats near to your secured body. And because there will soon be an end to your crying, surely you won't rend your breast with wailing and drench your face with ungrounded tears? What pleasure is there in having condemned the sacred gods, or having condemned the Muses or the awe-inspiring crowd for cruelty? Why did the creator not give us medicine and the art of healing, or anything besides crafted poems? If the cure could come for sickness from poetry, Phoebus himself and the Muses would give the poems. Go, why don't you? Get up, lazy. Take yourself to the lively city,   [p148]which the father Seine cuts twice with a twin river. Here Duret shines among doctors, as Hesperus, e radiating forth, sparkles between bright stars. By his advice life is breathed into those sick without hope, even as he has often restored those deprived of life. Because joyful Apollo taught him his skills, the medicine which can carry away destruction, and which can put plague to flight. Nay, as many times as Apollo has let a soul go to his joyful fate, so has Duret restored it, and life to those discharged. In Paris, no doubt, he will cast out the fever from you with health-bringing medicine, and will rebuild your strength. Put away the other arts, reject doctors' exams, for he alone is the man to go to to make you well.' Behold, Duret, by the Goddess' command I dare to hope for health, relying on your advice and skill. And so may a flourishing life extend as far as the years of Nestor, f and may such an honour extend to you after your death. Bring forth speech bearing salvation from your fertile breast, to subdue the savage gripes of terror-bringing fever. Or if a more important concern for the  health of great men detains you, and forbids you from being at hand for trifling matters, at least make threats, and pour on harsh words; believe me, the fever will not put up with made-up threats. Then will my life grow green again with enduring strength, and an oaken garland will adorn your head. And although born under a cold star, g I scarcely seem able to repay thanks to your merits. But nevertheless, I shall try to repay the good-will extended towards me, and no less a love will burn in my grateful breast. Neither shall my father h deny gems, nor gifts of golden metal, when he has seen that his son is saved from harm. Or if, perhaps, the rewards of Fortune seem worthless to you, there are other riches which are mine and can be given as a tribute. I will give you a thousand pleasant elegiacs, a thousand of Phalaecus, i and I will sing of your deeds in Pindar's meter. j The fluency of the Latin and Greek tounge which belongs to you, the power of your teaching and character, and how your well-learned tounge holds as many doctors hanging, learning from your mouth, as it does thousands of youths,   [p149]and all your virtues Britain, sundered from the world, and other races will know, when I tell them. You alone checked the sorrows of death-bringing fever, which cooks entrails scorched with slow-burning decay. It is, I confess, a labour of Hercules; but eternal fame, greater than the glory of Hercules, will be the reward.