Prince Henry.  Can you bring The dead to life?

Lucifer.  Yes; very nearly. 
And, what is a wiser and better thing,
Can keep the living from ever needing
Such an unnatural, strange proceeding,
By showing conclusively and clearly
That death is a stupid blunder merely,
And not a necessity of our lives. 
My being here is accidental;
The storm, that against your casement drives,
In the little village below waylaid me. 
And there I heard, with a secret delight,
Of your maladies physical and mental,
Which neither astonished nor dismayed me. 
And I hastened hither, though late in the night,
To proffer my aid!

Prince Henry (ironically) For this you came!  Ah, how can I ever hope to requite This honor from one so erudite?

Lucifer.  The honor is mine, or will be when I have cured your disease.

  Prince Henry.  But not till then.

  Lucifer.  What is your illness?

Prince Henry.  It has no name. 
A smouldering, dull, perpetual flame,
As in a kiln, burns in my veins,
Sending up vapors to the head,
My heart has become a dull lagoon,
Which a kind of leprosy drinks and drains;
I am accounted as one who is dead,
And, indeed, I think that I shall be soon.

Lucifer And has Gordonius the Divine,
In his famous Lily of Medicine,—­
I see the book lies open before you,—­
No remedy potent enough to restore you?

  Prince Henry.  None whatever!

Lucifer The dead are dead,
And their oracles dumb, when questioned
Of the new diseases that human life
Evolves in its progress, rank and rife. 
Consult the dead upon things that were,
But the living only on things that are. 
Have you done this, by the appliance
And aid of doctors?

Prince Henry.  Ay, whole schools
Of doctors, with their learned rules,
But the case is quite beyond their science. 
Even the doctors of Salern
Send me back word they can discern
No cure for a malady like this,
Save one which in its nature is
Impossible, and cannot be!

  Lucifer That sounds oracular!

  Prince Henry Unendurable!

  Lucifer What is their remedy?

Prince Henry You shall see; Writ in this scroll is the mystery.

Lucifer (reading). “Not to be cured, yet not incurable! 
The only remedy that remains
Is the blood that flows from a maiden’s veins,
Who of her own free will shall die,
And give her life as the price of yours!”
That is the strangest of all cures,
And one, I think, you will never try;
The prescription you may well put by,
As something impossible to find
Before the world itself shall end! 
And yet who knows?  One cannot say
That into some maiden’s brain that kind
Of madness will not find its way. 
Meanwhile permit me to recommend,
As the matter admits of no delay,
My wonderful Catholicon,
Of very subtile and magical powers!