Boys place a thorn beneath an ass’s tail;
The cure Ned knows not; jumping’s no avail.
Whisking’s still worse; it deeper drives the dart.
’Tis reason’s task to ease the burning smart.125
The ass, if sharper grow the throbs and pains,
Kicks, plunges, rolls, his hide with gore bestains.
Our doctor’s mind, by art full well prepared,
With gentle measures sought the ill he feared.
Once more, with tact, he bids fresh memories come,
And leads the maid again to talk of home.