When Francus comes to solace with his whore, He sends for rods, and strips himself stark naked; For his lust sleeps, and will not rise before, By whipping of the wench, it be awakËd. I envy him not, but wish I[523] had the power To make myself his wench but one half-hour. FOOTNOTES: [523] So Isham copy.--Ed. A "he." IN CASTOREM. XXXIV. Of speaking well why do we learn the skill, Hoping thereby honour and wealth to gain? Sith railing Castor doth, by speaking ill, Opinion of much wit, and gold obtain. IN SEPTIMIUM. XXXV. Septimius[524] lives, and is like garlic seen, For though his head be white, his blade is green. This old mad colt deserves a martyr's praise, For he was burnËd[525] in Queen Mary's days. FOOTNOTES: [524] So ed. B.--Isham copy, ed. A, and MS. "Septimus." [525] "Burn" is often used with an indelicate _double entendre_. Cf. _Lear_ iii. 2, "No heretics _burned_ but wenchers' suitors;" _Troilus and Cressida_, v. 2, "A _burning_ devil take them." OF TOBACCO. XXXVI. Homer of Moly and Nepenthe sings; Moly, the gods' most sovereign herb divine, Nepenthe, Helen's[526] drink, which gladness brings, Heart's grief expels, and doth the wit refine. But this our age another world hath found, From whence an herb of heavenly power is brought; Moly is not so sovereign for a wound, Nor hath nepenthe so great wonders wrought. It is tobacco, whose sweet subtle[527] fume The hellish torment of the teeth doth ease, 10 By drawing down and drying up the rheum, The mother and the nurse of each disease; It is tobacco, which doth cold expel, And clears th' obstructions of the arteries, And surfeits threatening death digesteth well, Decocting all the stomach's crudities;[528] It is tobacco, which hath power to clarify The cloudy mists before dim eyes appearing; It is tobacco, which hath power to rarify The thick gross humour which doth stop the hearing; 20 The wasting hectic, and the quartan fever, Which doth of physic make a mockery, The gout it cures, and helps ill breaths for ever, Whether the cause in teeth or stomach be; And though ill breaths were by it but confounded, Yet that vild[529] medicine it doth far excel, Which by Sir Thomas More[530] hath been propounded, For this is thought a gentleman-like smell. O, that I were one of these mountebanks Which praise their oils and powders which they sell! 30 My customers would give me coin with thanks; I for this ware, forsooth,[531] a tale would tell: Yet would I use none of these terms before; I would but say, that it the pox will cure; This were enough, without discoursing more, All our brave gallants in the town t'allure. FOOTNOTES: