Classic Poem

Lockly spits apace, the rhewme he cals it,
But no drop (though often urgd) he straineth
From his thirstie jawes; yet all the morning
And all day he spits, in ev'ry corner;
At his meales he spits, at ev'ry meeting;
At the barre he spits before the Fathers;
In the Court he spits before the Graces;
In the Church he spits, thus all prophaning
With that rude disease, that empty spitting:
Yet no cost he spares, he sees the Doctors,
Keepes a strickt diet, precisely useth
Drinks and bathes drying, yet all prevailes not.
'Tis not China (Lockly ), Salsa Guacum ,
Nor dry Sassafras can helpe, or ease thee;
'Tis no humor hurts, it is thy humor.