Althaea
Yea, lest they smite us with some four-foot plague.
CHORUS.
But when time spreads find out some herb for it.
Althaea
And with their healing herbs infect our blood.
CHORUS.
What ails thee to be jealous of their ways?
Althaea
What if they give us poisonous drinks for wine?
CHORUS.
They have their will; much talking mends it not.
Althaea
And gall for milk, and cursing for a prayer?
CHORUS.
Have they not given life, and the end of life?
Althaea
Lo, where they heal, they help not; thus they do,
They mock us with a little piteousness,
And we say prayers, and weep; but at the last,
Sparing awhile, they smite and spare no whit.
CHORUS.
Small praise man gets dispraising the high gods:
What have they done that thou dishonourest them?