“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?”
“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.”
“Yes, yes, young man, this is the real elixir of love!”
(And perhaps it was, for ’twas good Bordeaux.)
“And young rustic, don’t take it till to-morrow. (By that time I shall be gone.)”
“Oh, good doctor!”
“I’ faith (to himself again,) fools there are ’neath the sun;