1. Is any deaf? Is any blind? Is any bound, or loose behind? Is any foul, that would be fair? Would any Lady change her hair? Does any dream? Does any walk, Or in his sleep affrighted talk? I come to cure what ere you feel, Within, without, from head to heel. 2. Be drums or rattles in thy head; Are not thy brains well tempered? Does Eolus thy stomach gnaw, Or breed there vermin in thy maw? Dost thou desire, and cannot please, Lo! here the best Cantharides. I come. 3. Even all diseases that arise From ill disposed crudities, From too much study, too much pain, From laziness, or from a strain, From any humour doing harm, Be 't dry or moist, or cold or warm. I come. 4. Of lazy gout I cure the Rich; I rid the Beggar of his itch; I fleam avoid, both thick and thin: I dislocated joints put in. I can old Æson's youth restore, And do a thousand wonders more. Then come to me. What! 3 SONG. 1. Maids of the chamber or the kitchen, If you be troubled with an itching, Come give me but a kiss or two, I'll give you that shall soon cure you. Nor Galen nor Hippocrates Did ever do such cures as these. 2. Crack'd maids, that cannot hold your water, Or use to break wind in your laughter; Or be you vex'd with kibes or corns, I'll cure; or Cuckolds of their horns. Nor Galen. 3. If lusty Doll, maid of the dairy, Chance to be blue-nipp'd by the Fairy, For making Butter with her tail, I'll give her that did never fail. Nor Galen. 4. Or if some worse mischance betide her, Or that the nightmare over-ride her; Or if she tell all in a dream, I'll cure her for a mess of cream. Nor Galen. 4 SONG. 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. My powder and oil, extracted with toil, By rare sublime infusions, Have proof they are good, by mine own dear blood, In many 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. My powder. 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. My powder. The web or the pin,[624] 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. My powder. FAMILIAR RECEIPTS.