Doctor. Why, sirrah, do you never take physic?
Andrew. Yes, master, sometimes.
Doctor. What sort do you take?
Andrew. Any sort, no matter what; ’tis all one to me.
Doctor. And how do you take it?
Andrew. Why I take it—I take it—and put it upon a shelf: and if I don’t get well, I take it down again, and work it off with good strong ale. But you shall hear me read in my golden books, master.
He that can dance with a bag at his back,
Need swallow no physic, for none he doth lack,
He who is healthy, and cheerful, and cool,
Yet squanders his money on physic’s a fool.