But first the Operator wife
Over the Sight a Bandage ties:
For Vomits always ftrain the Eyes.
Courage! I'll make you difembogue,
Spight of his Teeth, th' unlucky Rogue;
I'll drench the Rafcal, never fear,
And bring him up, or drown him there.
Warm Water down he makes him pour,
'Till his ftretch'd Guts could hold no more;
Which doubly swoll'n, as you may think,
Both with the Cobler, and the Drink,
What they receiv'd against the Grain,
Soon paid with Interest back again.
Here come his Tools! he can't be long,
Without his Hammer and his Thong.
The Cobler humour'd what was fpoke,
And gravely carry'd on the Joke;
As he heard nam'd each fingle Matter,
He chuck'd it foufe into the Water;
And then, not to be seen as yet,
Behind the Door made his Retreat.
The fick Man now takes Breath a-while,
Strength to recruit for farther Toil.
Unblinded he, with joyful Eyes,
The Tackle floating there espies;
Fully convinc'd within his Mind,
The Cobler could not stay behind;
Who to the Alehoufe ftill would go,
Whene'er he wanted Work to do:
Nor could he like his present Place,
He ne'er lov'd Water in his Days.
At length he takes a fecond Bout,
Enough to turn him inside out;
With Vehemence fo fore he strains,
As would have split another's Brains.
Ay! here the Cobler comes, I fwear!
(And Truth it was, for he was there.)
And, like a rude ill-manner'd Clown,
Kick'd, with his Foot, the Vomit down.
The Patient, now grown wondrous light,
Whipp'd off the Napkin from his Sight;
Briskly lift up his Head, and knew
The Breeches and the Jerkin's Hue :
And fmil'd to hear him grumbling say,
As down the Stairs he ran his way,
He'd ne'er fet Foot within his Door,
And jump down open Throats no more:
No; while he liv'd, he'd ne'er again
Run, like a Fox, down the Red Lane.
Our Patient thus, his Inmate gone,
Cur'd of the Crotchets in his Crown,
Joyful his Gratitude expreffes,
With thousand Thanks, and hundred Pieces.
And thus, with much of Pains and Coft,
Regain'd the Health, he never loft.
And most Men foon or late have own'd,
'Tis there, or no where, to be found.
This real Wisdom timely knows,
Without Experience of the Woes;
Nor needs inftru&tive Smart, to fee,
That all on Earth is Vanity.
Lofs, Difappointment, Paffion, Strife,
Whate'er torments, or troubles Life,
Tho' groundless, grievous in its Stay,
"Twill shake our Tenements of Clay,
When past, as nothing we esteem;
And Pain like Pleasure is but Dream.
IS ill; attempt not to foresee
The Ends ordain'd for You and Me:
No; never to Magicians run,
To learn the Fate, You cannot fhun:
Whether more Winters You may taste,
Or this Year's Snow defcends Your laft;
Ask not the Gods' Decrees to know,
But use the Bleffings they beflow:
From lengthen'd Cares, from fruitless Strife,
O fnatch this little Blaze of Life!
Our Age endures continual Death;
And wastes with every wafting Breath:
Arrest To-day, for Time's a Thief,
And lend the Morrow no Belief.
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