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To Mr. T.S. The Tooth-ach cur'd.
1652.
Oh, how it stings! Peace Gouty Sir, you'r blest
In such a Pain, as forces you to rest.
Mistake not, Madam, Child-birth is a toy;
Nay; by your longing for't, it seems a Joy.
Hanging it self is not so sad a thing;
Else at the Gallows they would never sing.
Blest they, whose Mouths hold nothing but their tongue!
'Tis this sure makes our Grannams live so long.
Thrice happy they, who are o'th' horned crew;
They've but one row of teeth, and full enow.
If Cuckolds had that priviledge by right,
I'd have a Wife my self before 'twas night.
11
Who with two coughs blew all her tushes out.
I sadly find their reason is not bad,
Who hold 'tis Tooth-ach makes our Dogs run mad.
Tormented still! no ease? pray, let m'alone;
I've try'd all Remedies I've heard, but one.
That is—as old-Wifes say, in ancient time
They cur'd the Tooth-ach with some Charms in rhyme,
Divine Apollo, then vouchsafe me ease.
Wondrous effects of Verse! my Pains now cease.
Thanks, great Apollo! thanks! I find it true,
Thou'rt God of Poets, and Physitians too.
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