WITH us ther was a Doctor of Phisike.
In all this world ne was ther non him like
To spek of phisike, and of surgerie :
For he was grounded in astronomie.
He kept his patient a ful gret del
In houres by his magike naturel.
Wei could he fortunen the ascendent
Of his images for his patient.
He knew the cause of every maladie,
Were it of cold, or hote, or moist, or drie,
And wher engendred, and of what humour,
He was a veray prafite practisour.
The cause yknowe, and of his harm the rote,
Anon he gave to the sike man his bote.
Ful redy hadde he his apothecaries
To send his dragges, and his lettuaries.
For eche of hem made other for to winne;
Hir friendship na ‘s not’newe to beginne.
Wei knew he the old Esculapius,
And Dioscorides, and eke Rufus;
Old Hippocras, Hali, and Gallien,
Serapion, Rasis, and Avicen;
Averrois, Damascene, and Constantin;
Bernard, and Gatisden, and Gilbertin.
Of his diete mesurable was he,
For he was of no superfluitee,
But of gret nourishing, and digestible.
His studie was but little on the Bible.
In sanguin and in perse he clad was alle
Linned with taffata, and with sendalle.
And yet he was but esy of dispence :
He kepte that he wan in the pestilence.
For golde in phisike is a cordial; Therfore he loved gold in special.
By: Geoffrey Chaucer
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