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Medicine.

Phœbus , O Charles, hath trusted Medicine
To me, the hearbs of all the world are mine:
With those I root up sicknesse, poisons tame,
Equall to any Circe ere did frame.
This art's your peoples good, you have no part,
Whose health rests not on hearbs or doubtfull art,
Your tēperance makes that no disease can harm you,
The publike love 'gainst poisons all doth arme you.