ABSTRACT
I wasted my time, with my perfumed hair, my loitering walk with its measured tread. Here herbs were worth nothing, no night-dark Medea, no grasses boiled by Perimede's art: we can't locate the causes, the blows hit us blind, yet still they come down invisible paths. This patient needs no doctors, no soft beds, Immune to the weather, to the air, he walks-shocked, his friends gape at his corpse! Whatever love is, it is indefensible. To what charlatan seer am I not a windfall? What crone doesn't read my dreams ten times over?
