said he, “daughter of Peneus; I am not a foe.  Do not fly me as a lamb flies the wolf, or a dove the hawk.  It is for love I pursue you.  You make me miserable, for fear you should fall and hurt yourself on these stones, and I should be the cause.  Pray run slower, and I will follow slower.  I am no clown, no rude peasant.  Jupiter is my father, and I am lord of Delphos and Tenedos, and know all things, present and future.  I am the god of song and the lyre.  My arrows fly true to the mark; but, alas! an arrow more fatal than mine has pierced my heart!  I am the god of medicine, and know the virtues of all healing plants.  Alas!  I suffer a malady that no balm can cure!”

The nymph continued her flight, and left his plea half uttered.  And even as she fled she charmed him.  The wind blew her garments, and her unbound hair streamed loose behind her.  The god grew impatient to find his wooings thrown away, and, sped by Cupid, gained upon her in the race.  It was like a hound pursuing a hare, with open jaws ready to seize, while the feebler animal darts forward, slipping from the very grasp.  So flew the god and the virgin—­he on the wings of love, and she on those of fear.  The pursuer is the more rapid, however, and gains upon her, and his panting breath blows upon her hair.  Her strength begins to fail, and, ready to sink, she calls upon her father, the river god:  “Help me, Peneus! open the earth to enclose me, or change my form, which has brought me into this danger!” Scarcely had she spoken, when a stiffness seized all her limbs; her bosom began to be enclosed in a tender bark; her hair became leaves; her arms became branches; her foot stuck fast in the ground, as a root; her face, became a tree-top, retaining nothing of its former self but its beauty.  Apollo stood amazed.  He touched the stem, and felt the flesh tremble under the new bark.  He embraced the branches, and lavished kisses on the wood.  The branches shrank from his lips.  “Since you cannot be my wife,” said he, “you shall assuredly be my tree.  I will wear you for my crown; I will decorate with you my harp and my quiver; and when the great Roman conquerors lead up the triumphal pomp to the Capitol, you shall be woven into wreaths for their brows.  And, as eternal youth is mine, you also shall be always green, and your leaf know no decay.”  The nymph, now changed into a Laurel tree, bowed its head in grateful acknowledgment.

That Apollo should be the god both of music and poetry will not appear strange, but that medicine should also be assigned to his province, may.  The poet Armstrong, himself a physician, thus accounts for it: 

    “Music exalts each joy, allays each grief,
     Expels diseases, softens every pain;
     And hence the wise of ancient days adored
     One power of physic, melody, and song.”

The story of Apollo and Daphne is often alluded to by the poets.  Waller applies it to the case of one whose amatory verses, though they did not soften the heart of his mistress, yet won for the poet wide-spread fame: