For the toothache ’tis a specific aid,
For every amorous boy, or lovesick maid.
Sometimes another way to work ’twill go,
Up spouts a deluge from the abyss below;—
This physic is more safe, (though not so fine,)
Than bumpers crown’d too oft with sparkling wine.
A glass is not a better cure than that,
For care, or toothache, both of which would kill a cat.
Surely when Prometheus climb’d above the poles,
Slyly to learn their art of making souls,