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“I Zwing on a tree!—and for what?’ replies Hob,
How the dickens came zuch a strange freak in your
knob 2
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 knaugh 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.


(colatas, Jr.)

A MAN, in many a country town, we know,
Professes openly with death to wrestle ;

Ent’ring the field against the grimly foe,
Arm'd with a mortar and a pestle.

Yet, some affirm, no enemies they are:
But meet just like prize-fighters, in a Fair,
Who first shake hands before they box,
Then give each other plaguy knocks,
With all the love and kindness, of a brother ;
So (many a suff"ring Patient saith,)
Tho' the Apothecary fights with Death,
Still they’re sworn friends to one another.

A member of this AEsculapian line,
Lived at Newcastle upon Tyne;
No man could better gild a pill;
Or make a bill ;
Or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister;
Or draw a tooth out of your head;
Or chatter scandal by your bed ;
Or give a clyster.


Of occupations these were quantum suff;
Yet, still he thought the list not long enough ;
And therefore Midwifery he choose to pin to't.
This balanced things:—for if he hurl’d
A few score mortals from the world. -
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:

All the old women call’d him “a fine man!”
His name was Bolus.

Benjamin Bolus, tho’ in trade,
(Which oftentimes will genius fetter)

Read works of fancy, it is said;
And cultivated the Belles Letters.

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 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 call’d 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 patients 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 expected from a horse,
With an Apothecary on his back?

Bolus arrived ; and gave a doubtful 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 lets 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 th’ Apothecary had physic’d him,-
And not his master.

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A Poor simple foreigner, not long ago,
Whose knowledge of English was simply, so so;
At a shop window reading ‘Good pickles sold here,”
To the shopwoman said, “Wat is pickles my dear.”

‘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
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
"Oil - -
For aloud clap of thunder caus’d Miss Kitty Ner-
To start from her chair, and cry ‘Mercy preserve
While he, keeping closely his lesson in view,
Cry’d ‘Mercy” preserve us, and pickle us too!’


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 dear 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 dose :
“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 off 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.”

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