And why should this be thought so odd ?

Can't men have taste who cure a phthysic?
Of poetry though patron god,

Apollo patronizes physic.
Bolus loved verse, and took so much delight in't,
That his prescriptions he resolved to write in't.

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.
And on the label of the stuff

He wrote this verse;
Which one would think was clear enough

And terse —
When taken,
To be well shaken.

Next morning, early, Bolus rose;
And to the patient's house he goes

Upon his pad,

Who a vile trick of stumbling had :
It was indeed a very sorry hack ;

But that's of course;

For what's to be expected from a horse
With an apothecary on his back ?

Bolus arrived, and gave a double tap,

Between a single and a double rap.
Knocks of this kind
Are given by gentlemen who teach to dance ;

By fiddlers, and by opera-singers :
One loud, and then a little one behind,
As if the knocker fell by chance

Out of their fingers.

The servant let him in, with dismal face,
Long as a courtier's out of place –

Portending some disaster;
John's countenance as rueful look’d, and grim,
As if the apothecary had physick’d him,

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.”


A FRENCHMAN once, who was a merry wight,
Passing to town from Dover in the night,
Near the road side an ale-house chanced to spy:
And being rather tired as well as dry,
Resolved to enter ; but first he took a peep,
In hopes a supper he might get, and cheap.
He enters : “hallo! garçon, if you please,
Bring me a littel bit of bread and cheese,
And hallo! garçon, a pot of portar too !” he said,
“Vich I shall take, and then myself to bed.”

His supper done, some scraps of cheese were left,
Which our poor Frenchman, thinking it no theft,
Into his pocket put; then slowly crept
To wished-for bed; but not a wink he slept —
For, on the floor, some sacks of flour were laid,
To which the rats a nightly visit paid.

Our hero now undress’d, popp'd out the light,
Put on his cap, and bade the world good night:
But first his breeches, which contain’d the fare,
Under bis pillow he had placed with care.

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
That he, on end antipodes upright,
Bawling aloud, called stoutly for a light.
“Hallo! Maison ! Garçon, I say!
Bring me de bill for vat I have to pay ! ”
The bill was brought, and to his great surprise,
Ten shillings was the charge, he scarce believes his eyes,
With eager haste he runs it o’er,
And, every time he views it, thinks it more.
“Vy sare, and sare !” he cries : “I sall no pay;
Vat! charge ten shelangs for vat I have mangé ?
A leetal sup of portar, dis vile bed,
Vare all de rats do run about my head ?”
“ Plague on those rats !” the landlord mutter'd out :
“ I wish, upon my word, that I could make 'em scout:
I'll pay him well that can.” “Vat’s dat you say?"
I'll pay him well that can.” “Attend to me, I pray :
Vill you dis charge forego, vat I am at,
If from your house I drive away de rat ? ”
“With all my heart,” the jolly host replies,
“Ecoutez donc, ami;” the Frenchman cries.
“First, den — regardez, if you please,
Bring to dis spot a littel bread and cheese.
Eh bien ! a pot of portar too ;
And den invite de rats to sup vid you :
And after — no matter dey be villing -
For vat dey eat, you charge dem just ten shelang;
And I am sure, ven dey behold de score,
Dey'll quit your house, and never come no more.”



It's very hard ! and so it is,

To live in such a row,
And witness this, that every miss

But me has got a beau.
For love goes calling up and down,

But here he seems to shun :
I'm sure he has been asked enough

To call at Number One !

I'm sick of all the double knocks

That come to Number Four !
At Number Three, I often see

A lover at the door;
And one in blue, at Number Two,

Calls daily, like a dun -
It's very hard they come so near,

And not to Number One!

Miss Bell, I hear, has got a dear,

Exactly to her mind,
By sitting at the window pane

Without a bit of blind;
But I go in the balcony,

Which she has never done,
Yet arts that thrive at Number Five

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;

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