“O son of Aesculapius, come in haste. King Agamemnon calls thee to the aid Of warlike Menelaus, whom some hand Of Trojan or of Lycian, skilled to bend The bow, hath wounded with his shaft⁠—a deed For him to exult in, but a grief to us.”

Machaon’s heart was touched, and forth they went Through the great throng, the army of the Greeks. And when they came where Atreus’ warlike son Was wounded, they perceived the godlike man Standing amid a circle of the chiefs, The bravest of the Achaians, who at once Had gathered round. Without delay he drew The arrow from the fairly-fitted belt. The barbs were bent in drawing. Then he loosed The embroidered belt, the quilted vest beneath, And plate⁠—the armorer’s work⁠—and carefully O’erlooked the wound where fell the bitter shaft, Cleansed it from blood, and sprinkled over it With skill the soothing balsams which of yore The friendly Chiron to his father gave.