For in that wrench what agonies may come,
When we have half-dislodged the stubborn foe,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes an aching tooth of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and stings of pain,
The old wife’s nostrum, dentist’s contumely,
The pangs of hope deferred, kind sleep’s delay
The insolence of pity, and the spurns
That patient sickness of the healthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make,