Take a little rum
The less you take the better
Pour it in the lakes
read more

Take a little rum
The less you take the better
Pour it in the lakes
Of Wener or of Wetter.
Dip a spoonful out
And mind you don't get groggy,
Pour it in the lake
Of Winnipissiogie.
Stir the mixture well
Lest it prove inferior,
Then put half a drop
Into Lake Superior.
Every other day
Take a drop in water,
You'll be better soon
Or at least you oughter.

But, when the wit began to wheeze,
And wine had warm'd the politician,
Cur'd yesterday of my read more

But, when the wit began to wheeze,
And wine had warm'd the politician,
Cur'd yesterday of my disease,
I died last night of my physician.

Learn'd he was in medic'nal lore,
For by his side a pouch he wore,
Replete with strange read more

Learn'd he was in medic'nal lore,
For by his side a pouch he wore,
Replete with strange hermetic powder
That wounds nine miles point-blank would solder.

God heals and the doctor takes the fee.

God heals and the doctor takes the fee.

One doctor, singly like the sculler plies,
The patient struggles, and by inches dies;
But two physicians, read more

One doctor, singly like the sculler plies,
The patient struggles, and by inches dies;
But two physicians, like a pair of oars,
Waft him right swiftly to the Stygian shores.

A sound mind in a sound body is a thing to be prayed for.
[Lat., Orandum est, ut sit read more

A sound mind in a sound body is a thing to be prayed for.
[Lat., Orandum est, ut sit mens sana in corpore sano.]

"Is there no hope?" the sick man said,
The silent doctor shook his head,
And took his read more

"Is there no hope?" the sick man said,
The silent doctor shook his head,
And took his leave with signs of sorrow,
Despairing of his fee to-morrow.

A cheerful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones. (Proverbs 17:22)

A cheerful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones. (Proverbs 17:22)

(Macbeth:) How does your patient, doctor?
(Doctor:) Not so sick, my lord,
As she is troubled with read more

(Macbeth:) How does your patient, doctor?
(Doctor:) Not so sick, my lord,
As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies
That keep her from her rest.
(Macbeth:) Cure her of that!
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the memory of a rooted sorrow,
Raze out the written troubles of the brain,
And with some sweet oblivious antidote
Cleanse the stuffed bosom of the perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart?
(Doctor:) Therein the patient
Must minister to himself.
(Macbeth:) Throw physic to the dogs, I'll none of it!