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S THE NEW CA3TLB APOTHECARY.
'1 zwing on a tree!—and for what?' replies Hob, How the dickens came zuch a strange freak in your
knob? I woanly but zaid, if my ass met your sheers, And you cut off his tail, that I'd cut off his ears; Vor as you hate long tails, as the mark of a fop, I'd ha' don't 'cause I knaush that you don't like
a crop.' At this subtle rejoinder, his worship struck dumb, Found his proud overbearing was quite overcome: So the ass sav'd his tail by a quibble so clever, And the justice's ears are now longer than ever.
THE NEWCASTLE APOTHECARY.
A Man, in many a country town, we know,
Ent'ringthe field against the grimly foe,
Yet, some affirm, no enemies they are:
A member of this iEsculapian line,
Or make a bill;
Or give a clyster.
THE NEWCASTLE APOTHECARY. ■9
Of occupations these were quantum suff;
And therefore Midwifery he choose to pin to't.
He made amends by bringing others in to't.
His fame, full six miles round the country ran;
In short, in reputation he was solus:
His name was Bolus.
Benjamin Bolus, tho' in trade,
(Which oftentimes will genius fetter)
Read works of fancy, it is said;
And why should this be thought so odd?
Can't men have taste who cure a phthysic? Of Poetry tho' Patron-God,
Appollo patronises Physic.
Bolus loved verse ;—and took so much delight in't That his prescriptions he resolv'd 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 thetreasonv
"When patients swallow physic without reason,
He had a patient lying at death's door,
And, on the label of the stuff,
10 THE NEWCASTLE APOTHECARY.
Which, one would think, was clear enough,
"To be well sluiken.".
Next rooming early, Bolus rose,
Upon his pad,
But that's of course;
For what's expected from a horse,
Bolus arrived; and gave a doubtful tap j
Knocks of this kind
By Fiddlers and by Opera-singers:
Out of their fingers.
The servant lets 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.'
THE WHIMSICAL MAL-ENTENDU.
A rooR simple foreigner, not long ago,
'Why pickles,' says she 'is a sort of a name, Like preserves, and the meaning is nearly the same; For pickling preserves, though not quite the same
way, Yet 'tis much the same thing, as a body may say.'
The foreigner bow'd and gave thanks for his lesson;
Which the next day, at dinner, he made a fine mess on;
For aloud clap of thunder caus'd Miss Kitty Nervous,
To start from her chair, and cry 'Mercy preserve us!'
While he, keeping closely his lesson in view,
Cry'd ' Mercy' preserve us, and pickle us too!'
A MEDICINE FOR THE LADIES.
Miss Molly, a fam'd toast, was fair and young, Had wealth and charms—but then she had a tongue From morn to night, th' eternal larum rung, Which often lost those hearts her eyes had won. Sir John was smitten, and confess'd his flame, Sigh'd out the usual time, then wed the dame; Possessed he thought, of ev'ry joy of life; But his clear Molly prov'd a very wife. Excess of fondness did in time decline; Madam lov'd money, and the knight lov'd wine: From whence some petty discords would arise, As,' You're a fool!'—and, * You are mighty wise!'
Tho' he and all the world allow'd her wit; Her voice was shrill, and rather loud than sweet; When she began—for hat and sword he'd call; Then, after a faint kiss, cry, * B'y, dear Moll: 'Supper and friends expect me at the Rose.' 'And what, Sir John, you'll get your usual tlose? 'Go, stink of smoke, and guzzle nasty wine; 'Sure, never virtuous love was us'd like mine!'
Oft', as the watchful bellman march'd his round,
At a fresh bottle gay Sir John he found;
By four the knight would get his business done,
And only then reel'd oft" because alone.
Full well he knew the dreadful storm to come;
But, arm'd with Bordeaux, he durst venture home.
My lady with her tongue was still prepar'd; She rattled loud, and he impatient heard: ''Tis a fine hour! In a sweet pickle made! 'And this, Sir John, is every day the trade. 'Here 1 sit moping all the live-long night, 'Devour'd by spleen, and stranger to delight; 'Till morn sends staggering home a drunken beast 'Resolv'd to break my heart as well as rest.'