Hazlitt.    

	For there was never yet philosopher
	That could endure the toothache patiently.

Shakespeare.    

	Those cherries fairly do enclose
	Of orient pearl a double row,
	Which, when her lovely laughter shows,
	They look like rosebuds fill’d with snow.

Howe.    

	My curse upon thy venom’d stang,
	That shoots my tortured gums alang;
	And through my lugs gies monie a twang,
	Wi’ gnawing vengeance,
	Tearing my nerves wi’ bitter pang,
	Like racking engines!

Burns.