1.
Is any so spent, that his wife keeps Lent?
Does any waste in his marrow?
Is any a slug? Let him taste of my drug,
’Twill make him as quick as a sparrow.
Chorus:
My powder and oil, extracted with toil,
By rare sublime infusions,
Have proof they are good, by mine own dear blood,
In ‖: many :‖ (×5) strange conclusions.
2.
Does any consume with the salt French rheum?
Doth the gout or palsy shake him:
Or hath he the stone, ere a month be gone,
As sound as a bell I’ll make him.
Chorus
3.
The griefs of the spleen, and maids that be green,
Or the heat in the ladies’ faces;
The gripes of the stitch, or the scholar’s itch,
In my cures deserve no places.
Chorus
4.
The web or the pin, or the morphew of skin,
Or the rising of the mother,
I can cure in a trice. Oh, then, be not nice,
Nor ought that grieves you smother.
Chorus