He merely looked with his large eyes on me. 
The man is apathetic, you deduce? 
Contrariwise, he loves both old and young,
Able and weak, affects the very brutes
And birds—­how say I? flowers of the field—­
As a wise workman recognizes tools 230
In a master’s workshop, loving what they make. 
Thus is the man as harmless as a lamb: 
Only impatient, let him do his best,
At ignorance and carelessness and sin—­
An indignation which is promptly curbed: 
As when in certain travel I have feigned
To be an ignoramus in our art
According to some preconceived design,
And happed to hear the land’s practitioners
Steeped in conceit sublimed by ignorance, 240
Prattle fantastically on disease,
Its cause and cure—­and I must hold my peace!

Thou wilt object—­Why have I not ere this
Sought out the sage himself, the Nazarene
Who wrought this cure, inquiring at the source,
Conferring with the frankness that befits? 
Alas! it grieveth me, the learned leech
Perished in a tumult many years ago,
Accused—­our learning’s fate—­of wizardry,
Rebellion, to the setting up a rule 250
And creed prodigious as described to me. 
His death, which happened when the earthquake fell
(Prefiguring, as soon appeared, the loss
To occult learning in our lord the sage
Who lived there in the pyramid alone)
Was wrought by the mad people—­that’s their wont! 
On vain recourse, as I conjecture it,
To his tried virtue, for miraculous help—­
How could he stop the earthquake?  That’s their way! 
The other imputations must be lies; 260
But take one, though I loathe to give it thee,
In mere respect for any good man’s fame. 
(And after all, our patient Lazarus
Is stark mad; should we count on what he says? 
Perhaps not:  though in writing to a leech
’Tis well to keep back nothing of a case.)
This man so cured regards the curer, then,
As—­God forgive me! who but God himself,
Creator and sustainer of the world,
That came and dwelt in flesh on it awhile! 270
—­’Sayeth that such an one was born and lived,
Taught, healed the sick, broke bread at his own house;
Then died, with Lazarus by, for aught I know,
And yet was . . . what I said nor choose repeat,
And must have so avouched himself, in fact,
In hearing of this very Lazarus
Who saith—­but why all this of what he saith? 
Why write of trivial matters, things of price
Calling at every moment for remark? 
I noticed on the margin of a pool 280
Blue-flowering borage, the Aleppo sort,
Aboundeth, very nitrous.  It is strange!