“Listen, listen, listen every one that’s here. If amongst you any’s dying, let him no longer fear. I’ll cure her, or I’ll cure him, with physic quite divine-- In fact, you wouldn’t know it from very nice sweet wine. Apoplexy Need not vex ye, If unto Dulcamara, With rapid run, You straightway come. And as for those with asthma, If they but drink, I’m sure they’ll think They need not drink much longer If they’re too weak Almost to speak, Quick--_presto_--they’ll be stronger. “Oh! listen, listen, listen. If any one has gout. Oh! let him buy a bottle, and let him drink it out As for tooth-ache, But _one_ sip take, You’d think no more of _that_ tooth. And as to age, I do engage, _Two_ sips will bring back _your_ youth. Oh! yes I am, Your’e sure I am. Great Doctor Dulcamara In France he’s known, His fame has grown In Venice and Ferrara. “Oh! listen, listen, listen. No doubt you think ’tis dear. Oh! rustics, rustics, rustics, of that now have no fear. A hundred pounds! A hundred crowns! A bottle I don’t ask you! Oh! yes--oh! yes, The price now guess. To guess high, I don’t ask you. Well, half-a-crown, Just lay it down. Ah! ah? my friend, health bless you. All doctors pale, Before me fail, _I_ only can redress you. Come buy, come buy--oh! rustics, that’s if you’d be well; Your duty is to purchase--my duty is to--sell.” Now amongst the “rustics” who had heard this very eulogistic patter, was Nemorino; and this youth, biting the rim of his rustic hat, struck himself with the idea that the doctor could cure people of want of love. “Sir doctor, pardon me, do you know many secrets?” “Secrets, rustic, I’m _all_ secrets.” “My faith! Well, have you, by chance, the love drink of Queen Isotta?” “Hu-u-m. Well, well, well, rustic.” “The real love-drink that awakens love?” “Ah! I’m the only brewer of it.” “And--and do you _sell_ it?” “To those who can afford to buy it, rustic.” “Good doctor, and what is the charge?” “Well--hum--well!” “I’ve half-a-dozen crowns.” “I’ faith, you’ve hit it.” Then the doctor went to his gilt carriage, and brought out something singularly like a small wine-bottle. “I’ faith,” said the stout doctor, taking the crowns, “you will be cured if you drink that.” “I’ faith (this to himself,) fools there are ’neath the sun; A fool, yet none the less a brother--this one.” “Oh, but doctor, how am I to manage?” “Ah, I forgot, young rustic. “Now with great care, In weather fair, The bottle must be taken; Then up and down, Mind, _do not frown_, The bottle must be shaken! Pulled out the cork Per screw or fork, The bottle to your lips, oh, You then must place, And--no grimace, The potion drink in sips, oh.”