The proverb is something musty.

The labor we delight in physics [cures] pain.

I have very poor and unhappy brains for drinking.

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, Raze out the written troubles of the brain

It is not vain glory for a man and his glass to confer in his own chamber.

Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot. Take thou what course thou wilt.

The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day Is crept into the bosom of the sea.