Where limbs are broken, there his bandages he ties.
Were there no patient, malady, no fever, ache,
Could art sublime, the medical, its marvels make?
If humble brass and copper were not to be found,
Th’ alchemist’s stone could not to gold transmute them round.60
Defect is thus the mirror whence perfection’s seen;
And vileness is the foil to show off grandeur’s sheen.
By contrast does each opposite its fellow show,
Sweet honey by sharp vinegar we best can know.
The man who sees and feels his imperfections sore,