“O for one of the hoops of my Cornelius’ tub, I shall burst myself with laughing else.”
In Monsieur d’Olive, (1606):
“Our embassage is into France, there may be employment for thee: Hast thou a tub?”
She, whom the spital-house, and ulcerous sores Would cast the gorge at, this embalms and spices To the April day again. Timon of Athens, Act IV., Sc. III.
’Tis I who taint the sweetest joy, And in the shape of love destroy. My shanks, sunk eyes, and noseless face, Prove my pretension to the place. Gay.
Pox take him and his wit. Swift.
Constant to nought—save hazard and a whore, Yet cursing both—for both have made him sore; Unread—unless, since books beguile disease, The pox becomes his passage to degrees. Byron—Hints from Horace.
I said small-pox had gone out of late; Perhaps it will be followed by the great. ’Tis said the great came from America; Perhaps it may set out on its return,— The population there so spreads, they say, ’Tis grown high time to thin it in its turn, With war, or plague, or famine, any way, So that civilization they may learn; And which in ravage the more loathsome evil is— Their real lues, or our pseudo-syphilis? Byron—Don Juan, Canto I., Verse CXXX.
He’ll feel the weight of it many a day. Cowley.
A little attention is paid to diseases of the eye, thus in Winter’s Tale: