University of Virginia Library

But water, drunk or dabbled in—
Up, in both cases, to the chin—
Water, as Tottergait is told,
Will make him vigorous, though old:
It can't, indeed, renew his mettle;
That only would Medea's kettle—
A precious hot-bath long destroy'd,
Or who with age would be annoy'd?
But it can brace without, within,
The steel his chest, the salt his skin:
Suppress Madeira's rising fume, or
Sooth by diluting acrid humour;
And stimulate alternately,
Pure Nature's genuine Eau de vie.
“Mistake not, that I pupil am,”
Quoth Tottergait, “of Doctor Lambe,
“Who makes his water drop by drop
“In chemist's or in druggist's shop;
“As if in Paradise a still
“Were Adam's earliest utensil,
“And in some guilty moment quaft,
“His death, of running stream a draft!
“Charg'd with it's vivifying gas
“I love the sparkle of the glass:
“Cath'rine, the lines!—by heart she knows 'em—
“Sent hither, when my lovely blossom,
“With languor struck, her head reclined,
“And Edmund grieved that Ella pined;—
“This eye-spout blinds one for a time,
“Or I myself would read the rhyme.”