And so what mortals soever sought
Unto him of the earth’s afflicted ones,
Or with sores by nature’s corruption wrought,
Or with limbs deep-gashed by the gleaming bronze,
Or the stone hurled far from the whirling sling,
Or through feverous summers languishing,
Or whom winter had cramped in sinews and bones,
He delivered them all, that leechcraft-king,
And loosed from their diverse infirmities
Or by spells with magic’s nepenthe rife;
Or a pain-lulling draught would he pour for these,
Or with salves that requickened the fainting life
The limbs of those would he swathe around,
Or for cureless sores was a remedy found
In the merciful knife.