LXX Erotimus, born on the banks of Po, Was he that undertook to cure the knight, All what green herbs or waters pure could do, He knew their power, their virtue, and their might, A noble poet was the man also, But in this science had a more delight, He could restore to health death-wounded men, And make their names immortal with his pen.
LXXI The mighty duke yet never changed cheer, But grieved to see his friends lamenting stand; The leech prepared his cloths and cleansing gear, And with a belt his gown about him band, Now with his herbs the steely head to tear Out of the flesh he proved, now with his hand, Now with his hand, now with his instrument He shaked and plucked it, yet not forth it went.
LXXII His labor vain, his art prevailed naught, His luck was ill, although his skill were good, To such extremes the wounded prince he brought, That with fell pain he swooned as he stood: But the angel pure, that kept him, went and sought Divine dictamnum, out of Ida wood, This herb is rough, and bears a purple flower, And in his budding leaves lies all his power.
LXXIII Kind nature first upon the craggy clift Bewrayed this herb unto the mountain goat, That when her sides a cruel shaft hath rift, With it she shakes the reed out of her coat; This in a moment fetched the angel swift, And brought from Ida hill, though far remote, The juice whereof in a prepared bath Unseen the blessed spirit poured hath.
LXXIV Pure nectar from that spring of Lydia than, And panaces divine therein he threw, The cunning leech to bathe the wound began, And of itself the steely head outflew; The bleeding stanched, no vermile drop outran, The leg again waxed strong with vigor new: Erotimus cried out, “This hurt and wound No human art or hand so soon makes sound:
LXXV “Some angel good I think come down from skies Thy surgeon is, for here plain tokens are Of grace divine which to thy help applies, Thy weapon take and haste again to war.” In precious cloths his leg the chieftain ties, Naught could the man from blood and fight debar; A sturdy lance in his right hand he braced, His shield he took, and on his helmet laced:
LXXVI And with a thousand knights and barons bold, Toward the town he hasted from his camp, In clouds of dust was Titan’s face enrolled, Trembled the earth whereon the worthies stamp, His foes far off his dreadful looks behold, Which in their hearts of courage quenched the lamp, A chilling fear ran cold through every vein, Lord Godfrey shouted thrice and all his train: