"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Very weak! Very weak!
"O Little Elves of Loving Kindness, bear her on your swift, glad wings past the rarest aspect in the garden.
"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Without another pulse beat I can effect no cure."
Over the gilly-flower and over the sweet rocket, they bear the dragon fly's fair patient, a-searching for her lost pulse beat.
"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven"
Still seeking, they float with her through the aromatic odours arising from the bergamot and herb o'grace, and drift by the drooping heads of love-lies-a-bleeding.
Would you human folk care to know the Snakedoctor's balm for a fair lady who lies in a swoon?
His prescriptions are compounded solely for the eye and the ear.
