A Greek Epigram

SHot by th' Artillery of your fair Eye,
So great my pains, I would, but cannot die:
Sicilian Tyrants never yet could Death deny!
Tears from my fester'd Wound, like Matter, flow,
And still the Fire you will not quench, but blow.
What shall I do? I've ransack'd Nature's store,
She has no Plantain for a Lover's Sore:
Leucas the only Remedy is no more.
Ah! Madam, you, and only you can save,
Your Beauty that must heal the Wound it gave.
I'm Telephus, you have Achilles Arms,
You have, and know you have all their inherent Charms.
However, let me not like Chiron lie