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.