There’s no Purge ’gainst Melancholly,

But with Bacchus to be jolly:

All else are but Dreggs of Folly.

Paracelsus wanted skill

When he sought to cure that Ill:

No Pectorals like the Poets quill.

Here are Pills of every sort,

For the Country, City, Court,

Compounded and made up of sport.

If ’gainst Sleep and Fumes impure,

Thou, thy Senses would’st secure;

Take this, Coffee’s not half so sure.

Want’st thou Stomack to thy Meat,

And would’st fain restore the heat,

This does it more than Choccolet.

Cures the Spleen[,] Revives the blood[,]

Puts thee in a Merry Mood:

Who can deny such Physick good?

Nothing like to Harmeles Mirth,

’Tis a Cordiall On earth

That gives Society a Birth.

Then be wise, and buy, not borrow,

Keep an Ounce still for to Morrow,

Better than a pound of Sorrow.