 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
59
TOOTHACHE.
A raging throbbing tooth,—it burns, it burns!Darting its fiery fibres to the brain,
A stalk of fever on a root of pain,
A red-hot coal, a dull sore cork by turns,
A poison, kindred to the viper's fang,
Galling and fretting: ha! it stings again,
Riving the sensitive nerve with keenest pang:
Well; from this bitter let me cull the sweet,
For Goodness never did afflict in vain,
But wills that Pain should sit at Wisdom's feet:
Serve God in pleasant health; repent, and pray,
While the frail body rests at grateful ease;
And, sympathise with sickness and decay,
Charitable to Man: remember these.
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