17th Century Medicinal Poems

[Mission]

“Certaine Plaine Verse for the use of young Surgeons by the Author gathered, In praise of Salt.

Salt with the world did beginne,

whose end exceedeth time:

In it lie hidden secrets rare,

which no tongue can divine.

Our Saviour his Disciples deere,

to salt did oft allude:

Who by their blessed voices fill’d

the earth with spirituall food.

Salt many jewels farre exceedes,

salt guideth health and life:

Salt Author is of all increase,

‘gainst salt there is no strife.

Salt and his force, his place, his time,

his power in life and death:

His choice, his change, his actions stra

admire we may on earth.

__

What living creature can want salt,

what plant or tree may grow:

What metal perfect doth endure

if salt it doe foregoe.

His severall kindes are infinite,

his vertues without number:

His quantitie so large in all,

if salt it doe forgoe.

The aire, the earth, the Ocean deepe,

with salt are seasoned so:

As wanting it fowle, beast, nor fish,

nor man could breath I know,

And for one instance doe but note,

in bloud what taste you finde:

Note urine eke how salt it is,

if it digresse not kinde.

Yea sweat and spittle though thy be,

but excrements indeede,

Have store of salt, which thing we find

by nature so decreed.

The earth produceth salt in all

her creatures more and lesse:

Yet different each in some degree,

experience doth confesse.

Both hot and colde, yea moist and dry,

is salt in temperament:

Yea volatile and fix also

observing each intent.

Some sowre, some sweet, some sharp is found

some bitter eke in taste:

__

Yea liquid, solid, corrasive,

and purging salt thou hast.

All colours strange in salt are seene,

true healing therein stands:

And poyson strong abound in salt,

salt looseth metals bands.

The spirit of salt makes liquid Sol,

and Luna at thy will:

That potable they may be wrought,

a worke of worth and skill.

By salt are cured many greefes,

though hidden and profound,

Yet the exceeding use thereof,

is certainely unsound.

Salt doth preserve the food of men,

that travell farre by sea,

And seasoneth well our meats at home,

which else would soone decay.

Of gaine that doth thereby arise,

all people have a part:

It maketh barren land beare fruit,

which cheeres the Plow-mans heart.

The Marchant is enricht thereby,

and all that fish in lakes:

Great store of food is gain’d by salt,

all things it savoury makes.

In Physicke and Chirurgerie,

it hath the greatest part:

It doth containe an essence true,

which glads the fainting heart.

__

It causeth appetite at neede,

it quencheth thirst at will:

It ceaseth paine of raging gowts,

it favors hot doth still.

Thereby are bleeding wounds made well,

and that without delay:

Yea, sordid ulcers it makes sound,

and tumours takes away.

For meat and medicine there’s not ought,

with salt compar’d may be.

Wherefore Ile cease to praise a thing

above capacitie.

God grant we all may seasoned be,

with salt devoyd of strife,

That while we live we may doe good,

and gaine eternall life.

(John Woodall, The surgions mate, p. 288-91)

There's a poem on Mercury and Sulfer, too. I'll be sure to post them once I get to them for your edification.

[Blackbead]

OutSTANDING, Brother Mission!

I wonder, do ye think the Goode Doctor would mind if I reprinted his work??

Blackbead

[Mission]

OutSTANDING, Brother Mission!

I wonder, do ye think the Goode Doctor would mind if I reprinted his work??

Blackbead

You like that? I thought it was kind of silly. (Plus it pains me to have to copy poetry. The pain...the pain...)

Since it was written in 1617, I think you're safe on any copyright violations. Do give ol' John his due, though. I'll have the one on Sulphur in sometime soon as well.

The one on Mercury ought to be the most amusing.

[Blackbead]

I am sure, oh, magister of the thirsty annelid, that ye shall find something among your vials and potions to assuage the pains!

I will definitely give "Surgion Woodall" his due but I am thinking what a fine introduction this would make to the "Tales of the Sea" portion of the new book! I may wait until ye have the time to post all three of the pieces and pick the best. I do appreciate your taking the time to do so and count this as just another among the many excellent contributions you have made to the arts!

Read on . . .

Blackbead

[Mission]

I am sure, oh, magister of the thirsty annelid, that ye shall find something among your vials and potions to assuage the pains!

I will definitely give "Surgion Woodall" his due but I am thinking what a fine introduction this would make to the "Tales of the Sea" portion of the new book! I may wait until ye have the time to post all three of the pieces and pick the best. I do appreciate your taking the time to do so and count this as just another among the many excellent contributions you have made to the arts!

Read on . . .

Blackbead

I noticed yesterday that there's a fourth poem about medicine in general as well. I'll try to get them up this week for you.

BTW, I believe the Diary of Henry Teonge contains poems as well. They would probably be more general in nature.

[Mission]

All right, here's the next one, Blackbead. I just hope I've faithfully misspelled all the words correctly since you plan to reproduce some of these. MS Word tries really hard to correct things, which is definitely a mixed blessing. (I can be a sloppy typist, so I need their help, but when it comes to reproducing period stuff...)

Typing this stuff in also throws my already questionable spelling skills into disarray. I corrected a word the other day which ended in 'l' (a word like 'continual') by adding a second 'l.'

Oh and, BTW, the second and fourth lines are always indented one or two spaces. (I chose to indent them one.) However, the forum helpfully strips these extra spaces out for you.

“In praise of Sulphur or Brimstone.

This Sulphur from the Horrid deepe,

dame Nature did ordaine

A fearfull scourge for sinne to be

as Scripture doth explane.

__

A taste whereof we may perceive,

for his infernall fire

Hath millions slaine in towne and field,

by Mars his furious ire.

Yet though it seeme most mercilesse,

our God will have it so,

That from the selfe-same subject shall

great choice of medicines flow.

Yea it one chiefe monst three is held

in all that live and breath,

And Vegitables it maintaines,

yet burne in Caves beneath.

A Father it is of Mineralls,

Philosophers say so,

By help whereof they’re made concreat,

from Chaos whence they grow.

The Sulphur that’s in Animals,

in fatnes cheefly stands,

Each order be it good or bad,

is linck’t in Sulphur bands.

The Vegent Sulphurs many are,

each answering to his kinde,

Some Gummy, Oylely, watery

and Ayry eke inclin’d.

Yet Sulphur vini glads mans heart,

his courage it doth whet,

And many a strong man it puls downe,

it can inebriate.

I meane the sulphurous spirits of wine,

sir Barly-corne also

__

Hath shewed himselfe a man at Armes

each plow-man that doth know.

But to return being wide digrest

from what I have in hand,

The mineral Sulphur was my scope,

well knowne at Sea and Land.

Which Brimstone crude gainst itches tri’d

In country and in towne,

And to kill wormes in man and beast

is us’d of every clowne.

The oyle of Sulphur well prepar’d,

a jewell is of price;

His balsam precious is also,

These are no new device.

The quintessence thereof is pure,

and cheeres each vitall part,

Yea being prepared faithfully,

it doth revive the heart.

The flowers serve ‘gainst pestilence,

‘gainst Asthma and the Murre,

‘Gainst feavers and ‘gainst Plurisies

to appetite a spurre.

Unto the Lungs a Balsam ‘tis,

the Collicke it doth cure,

From falling sicknes it defends

and is both safe and sure.

In Phisicke and Chirurgerie

great helpe it doth produce,

To him that hath it well prepar’d,

and righty I knowe his use.

__

But Chimicke medicines are to fooles

like swords in mad mans hands,

When they should aide, oft times do kill,

such hazards in them stands.

Let Surgeons mates to whom I write,

be warn’d by me their friend,

And not too rashly give a Dose,

which then ‘s too late to mend.

For many a good man leaves his life,

through errours of that kinde,

Which I with young men would avoid

and beare my words in minde.

Though Sulphur, Sal, and Mercurie

have healing medicines store,

Yet know the’ have poyson and can kill,

prepare them well therefore.”

(Woodall, p. 293-6)

[Mission]

And here's the poem on Mercury. I like it the best so far, although he does rather go on in the middle. I really like all the odd contractions and lurid descriptions, though.

Some comments on it might be helpful. (Note: if the topics in the poem don't interest you, you can skip to the poem itself, as this is sort of involved and slightly technical.)

________________________________________________________________________

There are several references to humors - when you see words like 'dry,' 'hot,' and 'cold,' this is what he is talking about. Medicines were thought to be dry/wet/hot/cold properties in varying degrees. They were usually used to treat illnesses that had the opposite humoral descriptions. Different people's temperaments were also thought to have associated dry/wet/hot/cold aspects.

There is also reference to different properties of medicines, but since I haven't fully researched this, my thoughts on what these things are are sort of guesses based on the terms. (I've been meaning to research this more fully, so I'll take a whack at it here...but don't quote me. )

Causticke/Corrosive - Something that burns away scar tissue or "proud flesh"

Mundificative - Cleansing

Sigillate - To induce the formation of tissue on a wound

He talks about the other planets, which you might think has to do with the name Mercury (and it might) but I think it probably also refers to astrology, which had a role in medicine at this time.

The reference to Hermaphrodite is probably a nod to alchemy (which he mentions earlier) and the liquid/metal state of Mercury. Making the Philsopher's stone was thought to involve marrying the male to the female (two different states) thus creating a single male/female entity which was part of the alchemical process. (If you want more info on that, off to research you should go, 'cuz that's already more than interests me. )

In the end of this poem, he seems to be railing against other medical practitioners. He actually does just that in the text before hand, complaining about their profligate use of this medicine in very strong terms. (It does give him a chance to recite a fine list of some symptoms of mercury poisoning, though.)

________________________________________________________________________

“In Laudem Merucrij: Or in Praise of Quicksilver or Mercurie

Whereto shall thy worth compare?

whose actions so admired are,

No medicine knowne is like to thee,

in strength, in vertue and degree.

Yet makest they patient seeme like death,

with ugly face, with stinking breath:

But thou to health him soone restores,

although he have a thousand sores.

The perfectist cure proceeds from thee,

for Pox, for Gout, for Leprosie,

For scabs, the itch, of any sort,

These cures with thee are but a sport.

__

Thou humors canst force to sublime,

and them throw down when thou seest time,

Yea from each end diseases flie,

when thou art prest they force to try.

Sweat to provoke, thou goest before,

and urine thou canst moove good store,

To vomit for diversion best,

in purging downe thoug guid’st the rest.

Mans body dry thou canst humeckt

performing it with due respect,

And being too moist thou mak’st it dry

who can that secret cause descry.

Quid non men terme thee, wot’s thou why?

thou canst be faithfull yet wilt lye:

Thy temperament unequall strange,

is ever subject unto change.

For thou are moist all men may see,

and thou art dry in highest degree:

Thou’rt hot and cold even when thou please,

and at they will giv’st paine in ease.

Yet thou hast faults, for I dare say,

thou heal’st and kilst men every day,

For which I will not thee excuse,

nor hold them wise that thee abuse.

But for my selfe I doe protest,

as trusty friend within my brest,

Thy secrets rare most safe to hold,

esteeming them as finest gould.

And why? Thou art the Surgeons friend,

his worke thou canst begin and end:

__

For tumours cure, yea hot or cold,

thou art the best, be it new or old.

For recent wounds who knoweth thee,

hath got a peereles mysterie:

A Causticke thou are strong and sure,

what callous flesh can thee indure?

In Maturation where t’is dew,

thou art the best I ever knew:

For repercussion thou win’st praise,

by dissolution thou giv’st ease.

What’s virulent thou do’st defie,

and sordid Ulcers dost descry:

Yea fistulaes profound and fell,

thou searchest out and curest well.

No ulcer can thy force indure,

for in digestion thou art sure:

Mudification comes from thee,

and incarnation thous hast free.

To sigillate thou do’st not faile

and lest strange symptoms should assaile

The greefe late heal’d, thou canst convay,

th' offending cause an other way.

The Alchymist by Vulcan sought,

from volatile thee fixt t’have wrought:

But thou defiest his trumpery,

and changed him to beggary.

Had I but all thy healing Art,

it would so much advance my heart,

I should not doubt equall to be

in wealth to Lords of high degree.

__

But from thy venomous vapours vile,

thy corrosive sting that bones defile,

They noysome favors full of paine,

God give me grace free to remaine.

For when thou ragest Bird, nor Tree,

nor fish, nor fowle can withstand thee:

What mineral so stout can say,

she can withstand thy force one day?

To Saturns brest thou seem’st to dwell,

by Jupiters soyle thou dost excell,

Thou Lion-like surprisest Mars,

rich Sol thou mak’st as pale as ash.

Thou Venus beauty canst allay,

thou Hydrarge dost Elipse Luna:

And though thou seem’st to wrong all sixe,

not one without thee can be sixe.

Thou art their Mother, so saies Fame,

which gives them cause t’adore thy name:

Ready thou art as women be,

to helpe poore men in misery.

Humble, to dust, and ashe at will

water and oyle from thee men still:

Tost up and downe in fire thou art

yet subtill Mercurie plaies his part.

Meeke as a Lambe, manly eake,

soft as the Wool, Tiger like:

Millions in one, one in a Million,

Male and Female in thy pavilion.

Thou Hermaphrodite as Fathers know,

seeming solid, truely not so:

__

Thoul’t be in all, none rests in thee,

thy boldnes brings Calamity.

Thou Idoll of the Chymists ould,

who shall thy secrets all unfould?

Swift in thy tongue, none can thee stay,

when thou seem’st dead thour’t flowne away.

If thour’t in all things as men say,

daily produced and fled away,

Up to the skie, downe to the grave,

a wonder like thee, where shall men have?

But mend thy faults or thou shalt heare,

I’le blaze them out another yeare:

For many a guiltles man thou hast lam’d,

and many a modest wight defam’d.

And yet t’is finne to wrong a theefe,

th' Impostures fault therein was cheefe:

For he that would be bold with thee,

‘twere meet he knew Philosophy.

For thou to such art knowne and true,

but hatest fooles that men undoe,

Handling thee without due cause,

thou being not subject to their lawes.

Now to conclude, one boone grant mee,

I will require it gratefully:

If th’s old wife kill thee with fasting spittle,

survive to make her patient cripple.

Fro well I know it is in thee

to cause disgrace effectually:

His throat and nose see thou defile,

for thou thy Father canst beguile.

__

Force out his teeth, close up his jaw,

and leave scarce entrance for a straw:

Yea deafe, or dumbe see thou him make,

with ache and woe, with palsie shake.

Regard not thou through he should curse,

whose griefes th’ hast chang’d from ill to worse:

It’s knowne by thee ther’s many sleepe,

for whom it is too late to weepe.

I’le leave thee lest thy anger rise,

thy favours let no man despise:

For as sword drawne, I know thour’t prest,

men to offend, or yield them rest.

To any mov’d at these meane times,

I answer ‘twas my idle times,

And love to youths in Surgery,

urg'd me t’unmaske old Mercurie.

If Zoylus deeme I stretch too wide,

in praising thee what heeres descri’de,

I nothing doubt to prove each line,

to him that quarrels in due time.”

(Woodall, p. 301-6)

[Blackbead]

Hmmm . . . if I can just figure out how to get the good Doctor his fees from the sale of the book. I guess I could recreate the old joke about the client who was dying and asked his doctor, his accountant and his lawyer to each throw $100,000 in cash into the casket when he was being interred. Do you have any idea where Doctor Woodall is buried?

Blackbead

Shovel at Port Arms

[Mission]

As I mentioned, I'm pretty confident that this stuff is well and truly in the public domain at this point.

[Admiral Kilo]

A poem about salt. That's interesting, but it has a good point. Many things are salty. This world has lots of salt.