on chemotherapy

There was the medicine: the patient died.
And who recovered? No one asked.
So we roamed, with our hellish pills,
Among the valleys and the hills,
Worse than the pestilence itself we were.
I’ve poisoned a thousand: that’s quite clear:
And now from the withered old must hear
How men praise a shameless murderer.

J.W.Goethe Faust I 
1048 - 1055