Which Heaven in its wrath spreads o’er the universe,
And sorely, you’ll admit, O Muse, good taste offends,
It is that one which oftentimes upon the teeth descends!—
Jeanne. Oh, Paul!
Paul. “Ah, to tear out that tooth, my cup of joy were full!
Nay, friend, it can be cured, stop! do not let them pull!
Oh, never pull a tooth, e’en when it rots—you’ll rue it!
Let it be filled; but choose a clever man to do it!
Protect that little tooth, bi-cuspéd or incisor,
’Twill sweeten every meal—’twill make your smile seem nicer!”