The tooth-ach cured by a kisse.

FAte's now growne mercifull to men,
Turning disease to blisse:
For had not kind Rheume vext me then,
I might not Celia kisse.
Phisitians you are now my scorne:
For I have found a way:
To cure diseases (when forlorne
By your dull art) which may
Patch vp a body for a time,
But can restore to health,
No more then Chimists can sublime
True Gold, the Indies wealth.
That Angell sure that us'd to move
The poole, men so admir'd,
Hath to her lip the seat of love,
As to his heaven retir'd.