[Footnote:
Moliere seems to refer to Dr. Guenaut, who was said to have killed
with antimony (his favourite remedy) his wife, his daughter, his
nephew, and two of his sons-in-law.--AIME MARTIN.]
ARG. It is because you have a spite against him. But let us come to
the point. What is to be done when one is ill?
BER. Nothing, brother.
ARG. Nothing?
BER. Nothing. Only rest. Nature, when we leave her free, will herself
gently recover from the disorder into which she has fallen. It is our
anxiety, our impatience, which does the mischief, and most men die of
their remedies, and not of their diseases.
ARG. Still you must acknowledge, brother, that we can in certain
things help nature.
BER. Alas! brother; these are pure fancies, with which we deceive
ourselves. At all times, there have crept among men brilliant fancies
in which we believe, because they flatter us, and because it would be
well if they were true. When a doctor speaks to us of assisting,
succouring nature, of removing what is injurious to it, of giving it
what it is defective in, of restoring it, and giving back to it the
full exercise of its functions, when he speaks of purifying the blood,
of refreshing the bowels and the brain, of correcting the spleen, of
rebuilding the lungs, of renovating the liver, of fortifying the
heart, of re-establishing and keeping up the natural heat, and of
possessing secrets wherewith to lengthen life of many years--he
repeats to you the romance of physic.
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