Hygieia, full of health, all clean and pure,
Preserving men that virtue might endure.
The waters flow unsullied by your grace,
Impurities removed till not a trace
Of evil can be found to cause disease,
That healthy souls can do whate’er they please.
Your father is Apollo’s son, who learned
The art of healing; wisely he discerned
That health is better kept, than lost and gained,
And so from him you sprang, and have disdained
All sickness, fencing health about with walls:
Though illness strive, it’s weak and justly falls;
Unable to assault your gate, it fails:
But he without is sick, in pain he wails,
While they within can all their strength employ,
And spend their days in contemplation’s joy.


Asclepius, the healer of mankind,
The cure for every ailment did you find;
Master physician, foe to all disease,
The sick, the ill, your physic surely frees.
Paean, healer, and he who bears the rod,
And offspring of the most propitious god;
Who found the key to immortality,
Provoking anger in the deity
Who rules the deep, great Hades, for you stole
From him each time you saved a mortal soul;
And he besought that Zeus should right this wrong,
Lest he should lose all they that did belong
Within his realm, and so high heaven’s king,
He hurled his bolt, and did then balance bring;
For men again were brought to Hades’ halls,
And souls again came up from in his walls:
So, the living were furnished by the dead;
The same to Hades in due time were led.