That squeeze a living out of tears.
Though physic liv’d, while folks were ill,
None would prescribe, but bees of skill,
Which through the hive dispers’d so wide, 280
That none of them had need to ride;
Wav’d vain disputes, and strove to free
The patients of their misery;
Left drugs in cheating countries grown,
And us’d the product of their own; 285
Knowing the gods sent no disease,