Who, talking of Ulysses’ coming home,
Saith all his household but Argus his dog
Had quite forgot him:  ay, his deep insight[65]
Nor Pallas’ art in altering his shape,
Nor his base weeds, nor absence twenty years,
Could go beyond or any way delude. 
That dogs physicians are, thus I infer;
They are ne’er sick, but they know their disease,
And find out means to ease them of their grief;
Special good surgeons to cure dangerous wounds: 
For, stricken with a stake into the flesh,
This policy they use to get it out: 
They trail one of their feet upon the ground,
And gnaw the flesh about where the wound is
Till it be clean drawn out:  and then, because
Ulcers and sores kept foul are hardly cur’d,
They lick and purify it with their tongue,
And well observe Hippocrates’ old rule,
The only medicine for the foot is rest: 
For if they have the least hurt in their feet,
They bear them up and look they be not stirr’d. 
When humours rise, they eat a sovereign herb,
Whereby what cloys their stomachs they cast up;
And as some writers of experience tell,
They were the first invented vomiting. 
Sham’st thou not, Autumn, unadvisedly
To slander such rare creatures as they be?

SUM.  We call’d thee not, Orion, to this end,
To tell a story of dogs’ qualities. 
With all thy hunting how are we enrich’d? 
What tribute pay’st thou us for thy high place?

ORION.  What tribute should I pay you out of nought? 
Hunters do hunt for pleasure, not for gain. 
While dog-days last, the harvest safely thrives;
The sun burns hot to finish up fruits’ growth;
There is no blood-letting to make men weak. 
Physicians in their Cataposia
Or little Elinctoria,
Masticatorum, and Cataplasmata: 
Their gargarisms, clysters, and pitch’d-cloths,
Their perfumes, syrups, and their triacles,
Refrain to poison the sick patients,
And dare not minister, till I be out. 
Then none will bathe, and so are fewer drown’d. 
All lust is perilsome, therefore less us’d! 
In brief, the year without me cannot stand. 
Summer, I am thy staff and thy right hand.

SUM.  A broken staff, a lame right hand I had,
If thou wert all the stay that held me up,
Nihil violentum perpetuum. 
No violence that liveth to old age. 
Ill-govern’d star, that never bod’st good luck,
I banish thee a twelvemonth and a day
Forth of my presence; come not in my sight,
Nor show thy head so much as in the night.

ORION.  I am content:  though hunting be not out,
We will go hunt in hell for better hap. 
One parting blow, my hearts, unto our friends,
To bid the fields and huntsmen all farewell. 
Toss up your bugle-horns unto the stars: 
Toil findeth ease, peace follows after wars.
          
                              [Exit.

    [Here they go out, blowing their horns, and
    hallooing as they came in.