To sharp uneven ways thy steps decline; Abate thy speed, and I will hate of mine. Yet think from whom thou dost so rashly fly; Nor basely born, nor shepherd’s swain am I. Perhaps thou know’st not my superior state; And from that ignorance proceeds thy hate. Me Claros, Delphos, Tenedos, obey; These hands the Patareian sceptre sway: The king of gods begot me: what shall be, Or is, or ever was, in fate, I see: Mine is the invention of the charming lyre: Sweet notes, and heavenly numbers, I inspire: Sure is my bow, unerring is my dart; But ah! more deadly his who pierced my heart. Med’cine is mine; what herbs and simples grow In fields and forests, all their powers I know, And am the great physician call’d below. Alas! that fields and forests can afford No remedies to heal their lovesick lord: To cure the pains of love no plant avails; And his own physic the physician fails.”