An
EPISTLE
from
Alexander
to
Hephaestion
in
his
Sickness
.
WITH
such
a
Pulse
,
with
such
disorder'd
Veins
,
Such
lab'ring
Breath
,
as
thy
Disease
constrains
;
With
failing
Eyes
,
that
scarce
the
Light
endure
,
(
So
long
unclos'd
,
they've
watch'd
thy
doubtful
Cure
)
To
his
Hephaestion
Alexander
writes
,
To
soothe
thy
Days
,
and
wing
thy
sleepless
Nights
.
I
send
thee
Love
:
Oh
!
that
I
could
impart
,
As
well
my
vital
Spirits
to
thy
Heart
!
That
,
when
the
fierce
Distemper
thine
wou'd
quell
,
They
might
renew
the
Fight
,
and
the
cold
Foe
repel
.
As
on
Arbela's
Plains
we
turn'd
the
Day
,
When
Persians
through
our
Troops
had
mow'd
their
way
,
When
the
rough
Scythians
on
the
Plunder
run
,
And
barb'rous
Shouts
proclaim'd
the
Conquest
won
,
'Till
o'er
my
Head
(
to
stop
the
swift
Despair
)
The
Bird
of
Jove
fans
the
supporting
Air
,
Above
my
Plume
does
his
broad
Wings
display
,
And
follows
wheresoe'er
I
force
my
way
:
Whilst
Aristander
,
in
his
Robe
of
White
,
Shews
to
the
wav'ring
Host
th'
auspicious
Sight
;
New
Courage
it
inspires
in
ev'ry
Breast
,
And
wins
at
once
the
Empire
of
the
East
.
Cou'd
He
,
but
now
,
some
kind
Presage
afford
,
That
Health
might
be
again
to
Thee
restor'd
;
Thou
to
my
Wishes
,
to
my
fond
Embrace
;
Thy
Looks
the
same
,
the
same
Majestick
Grace
,
That
round
thee
shone
,
when
we
together
went
To
chear
the
Royal
Captives
in
their
Tent
,
Where
Sysigambis
,
prostrate
on
the
Floor
,
Did
Alexander
in
thy
Form
adore
;
Above
great
Aesculapius
shou'd
he
stand
,
Or
made
immortal
by
Apelles
Hand
.
But
no
reviving
Hope
his
Art
allows
,
And
such
cold
Damps
invade
my
anxious
Brows
,
As
,
when
in
Cydnus
plung'd
,
I
dar'd
the
Flood
T'
o'er-match
the
Boilings
of
my
youthful
Blood
.
But
Philip
to
my
aid
repair'd
in
haste
;
And
whilst
the
proffer'd
Draught
I
boldly
taste
,
As
boldly
He
the
dangerous
Paper
views
,
Which
of
hid
Treasons
does
his
Fame
accuse
.
More
thy
Physician's
Life
on
Thine
depends
,
And
what
he
gives
,
his
Own
preserves
,
or
ends
.
If
thou
expir'st
beneath
his
fruitless
Care
,
To
Rhadamanthus
shall
the
Wretch
repair
,
And
give
strict
Answer
for
his
Errors
there
.
Near
thy
Pavilion
list'ning
Princes
wait
,
Seeking
from
thine
to
learn
their
Monarch's
State
.
Submitting
Kings
,
that
post
from
Day
to
Day
,
To
keep
those
Crowns
,
which
at
my
Feet
they
lay
,
Forget
th'
ambitious
Subject
of
their
Speed
,
And
here
arriv'd
,
only
Thy
Dangers
heed
.
The
Beauties
of
the
Clime
,
now
Thou'rt
away
,
Droop
,
and
retire
,
as
if
their
God
of
Day
No
more
upon
their
early
Pray'rs
wou'd
shine
,
Or
take
their
Incense
,
at
his
late
Decline
.
Thy
Parisatis
whom
I
fear
to
name
,
Lest
to
thy
Heat
it
add
redoubl'd
Flame
;
Thy
lovely
Wife
,
thy
Parisatis
weeps
,
And
in
her
Grief
a
solemn
Silence
keeps
.
Stretch'd
in
her
Tent
,
upon
the
Floor
she
lies
,
So
pale
her
Looks
,
so
motionless
her
Eyes
,
As
when
they
gave
thee
leave
at
first
to
gaze
Upon
the
Charms
of
her
unguarded
Face
;
When
the
two
beauteous
Sisters
lowly
knelt
,
And
su'd
to
those
,
who
more
than
Pity
felt
.
To
chear
her
now
Statira
vainly
proves
,
And
at
thy
Name
alone
she
sighs
,
and
moves
.
But
why
these
single
Griefs
shou'd
I
expose
?
The
World
no
Mirth
,
no
War
,
no
Bus'ness
knows
,
But
,
hush'd
with
Sorrow
,
stands
,
to
favour
thy
Repose
.
Ev'n
I
my
boasted
Title
now
resign
,
Not
Ammon's
Son
,
nor
born
of
Race
Divine
,
But
Mortal
all
,
oppress'd
with
restless
Fears
,
Wild
with
my
Cares
,
and
Womanish
in
Tears
.
Tho'
Tears
,
before
,
I
for
lost
Clytus
shed
,
And
wept
more
Drops
,
than
the
old
Hero
bled
;
Ev'n
now
,
methinks
,
I
see
him
on
the
Ground
,
Now
my
dire
Arms
the
wretched
Corpse
surround
,
Now
the
fled
Soul
I
wooe
,
now
rave
upon
the
Wound
.
Yet
He
,
for
whom
this
mighty
Grief
did
spring
,
Not
Alexander
valu'd
,
but
the
King
.
Then
think
,
how
much
that
Passion
must
transcend
,
Which
not
a
Subject
raises
but
a
Friend
;
An
equal
Partner
in
the
vanquish'd
Earth
,
A
Brother
,
not
impos'd
upon
my
Birth
,
Too
weak
a
Tye
unequal
Thoughts
to
bind
,
But
by
the
gen'rous
Motions
of
the
Mind
.
My
Love
to
thee
for
Empire
was
the
Test
,
Since
him
,
who
from
Mankind
cou'd
chuse
the
best
,
The
Gods
thought
only
fit
for
Monarch
o'er
the
rest
.
Live
then
,
my
Friend
;
but
if
that
must
not
be
,
Nor
Fate
will
with
my
boundless
Mind
agree
,
Affording
,
at
one
time
,
the
World
and
Thee
;
To
the
most
Worthy
I'll
that
Sway
resign
,
And
in
Elysium
keep
Hyphaestion
mine
.