“All-seeing monarch! whether Lycia’s coast, Or sacred Ilion, thy bright presence boast, Powerful alike to ease the wretch’s smart; O hear me! god of every healing art! Lo! stiff with clotted blood, and pierced with pain, That thrills my arm, and shoots through every vein, I stand unable to sustain the spear, And sigh, at distance from the glorious war. Low in the dust is great Sarpedon laid, Nor Jove vouchsafed his hapless offspring aid; But thou, O god of health! thy succour lend, To guard the relics of my slaughter’d friend: For thou, though distant, canst restore my might, To head my Lycians, and support the fight.”