The cure

— Won’t you try my lenitive electuary? It’s a sovereign julep compounded of many simples, and it’s damnably demulcent, my dear.

— But is it a mollifying or a gently stimulating febrifuge?

— For those in grip of fever, it’s a palliative sling, my dear — so saith Pliny.

— Will it restore my youthful ardour? And rejuvenate my alabaster pallor?

— Never known to fail, my dear.

— Does it alleviate the itch associated with Grant’s Palsy? Will it banish thoughts of demons?

— Just drink it, for fuck sake.


 

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