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And why should this be thought so odd ?
Can't men have taste who cure a phthysic?
Apollo patronizes physic.
No opportunity he e'er let pass
Of writing the directions on his labels,
In dapper couplets, like Gay's Fables ; Or rather like the lines in Hudibras.
Apothecary's verse !- and where's the treason?
'Tis simply honest dealing — not a crime; When patients swallow physic without reason,
It is but fair to give a little rhyme.
He had a patient lying at death's door,
Some three miles from the town, it might be four; To whom, one evening, Bolus sent an article,
In pharmacy, that's called cathartical.
He wrote this verse;
And terse —
Next morning, early, Bolus rose;
Upon his pad,
Who a vile trick of stumbling had :
But that's of course;
For what's to be expected from a horse
Bolus arrived, and gave a double tap,
Between a single and a double rap.
By fiddlers, and by opera-singers :
Out of their fingers.
The servant let him in, with dismal face,
Portending some disaster;
And not his master.
“Well, how's the patient ? ” Bolus said. John shook his head. “ Indeed ? — hum!-ha! — that's very odd; He took the draught ? ” — John gave a nod ! “Well — how? — What then ? — Speak out, you dunce ! ” “Why then,” says John, "we shook him once.”
“Shook him !- how ? ” Bolus stummer'd out : “We jolted him about.” “What! shake a patient, man - a shake wont do.” “No, sir — and so we gave him two." “Two shakes ! — fools, fools ! 'Twould make the patient worse." “It did so, sir — and so a third we tried.” “Well, and what then?” “Then, sir, my master-died.”
COLMAN. THE FRENCHMAN AND THE RATS.
A FRENCHMAN once, who was a merry wight,
His supper done, some scraps of cheese were left,
Our hero now undress’d, popp'd out the light,
Sans cérémonie, soon the rats all ran, And on the flour-sacks greedily began; At which they gorged themselves; then smelling round. Under the pillow soon the cheese they found; And while at this they regaling sat, Their happy jaws disturb’d the Frenchman's nap; Who, half awake, cries out, “Hallo! hallo! Vat is dat nibbel at my pillow so? Ah! 'tis one huge big rat! Vat de diable is he nibbel, nibbel at ?”
In vain our little hero sought repose; Sometimes the vermin gallop'd o'er his nose;
And such the pranks they kept up all the night
It's very hard ! and so it is,
To live in such a row,
But me has got a beau.
But here he seems to shun :
To call at Number One !
I'm sick of all the double knocks
That come to Number Four !
A lover at the door;
Calls daily, like a dun -
And not to Number One!
Miss Bell, I hear, has got a dear,
Exactly to her mind,
Without a bit of blind;
Which she has never done,
Don't take at Number One!
'Tis hard with plenty in the street,
And plenty passing by — There's nice young men at Number Ten,
But only rather shy;