The Squire fufpected, being fhrewd,
This Silence boded him no good,
And, 'cause he nothing faw nor heard,
A Machiavilian Plot he fear'd.
Strait Circumstances crowded plain
To vex and plague his jealous Brain:
Trembling, in Pannic Dread he lies,
With gaping Mouth and staring Eyes;
And straining wiftful both his Ears,
He foon perfuades himself he hears
One skip and caper up the Stairs,
Sees the Door open quick, and knew
His dreaded Foe in Red and Blue,
Who, with a running Jump, he thought,
Leapt plumb directly down his Throat,
Laden with Tackle of his Stall,
Last, Ends, and Hammer, Strap, and Awl:
No fooner down, than with a Jerk
He fell to Musick, and to work.
If much he griev'd our Don before,
When but o' th' outfide of his Door;
How forely must he now moleft,
When got o' th' infide of his Breast!
The waking Dreamer groans and fwells,
And Pangs imaginary feels;
Catches and Scraps of Tunes he hears,
For ever ringing in his Ears;
Ill-favour'd Smells his Nose displease,
Mundungus ftrong, and rotten Cheese:
He feels him, when he draws his Breath,
Or tug the Leather with his Teeth,
Or beat the Sole, or elfe extend
His Arms to th' utmost of his End,
Enough to crack, when ftretch'd fo wide,
The Ribs of any mortal Side.
Is there no Method then, to fly
This vile inteftine Enemy?
What can be done, in this Condition,
But fending inftant for Physician?
The Doctor, having heard the Cafe,
Burst into Laughter in his Face:
Told him, he needs no more than rise,
Open his Windows, and his Eyes;
Whistling and stitching there to see
The Cobler, as he us'd to be.
Sir, quoth the Patient, your Pretences
Shall ne'er perfuade me from my Senfes.
How fhould I rife? the heavy Brute
Will hardly let me wag a Foot.
Tho' Seeing for Belief may go,
Yet Feeling is the Truth, you know:
I feel him in my Sides, I tell ye;
Had you a Cobler in your Belly,
You scarce would fleer as now you do:
I doubt your Guts would grumble too.
Still do you laugh? I tell you, Sir,
I'd kick you foundly, could I stir.
Thou Quack, that never hadst Degree
In either University:
Thou meer Licenciate, without Knowledge,
The Shame and Scandal of the College.
I'll call my Servants, if you stay;
So, Doctor, fcamper while you may.
One thus difpatch'd, a fecond came,
Of equal Skill, and greater Fame:
Who fwore him mad as a March Hare.
(For Doctors, when provok'd, will swear.)
To drive fuch Whimfies from his Pate,
He drag'd him to the Window strait,
But jilting Fortune can devife
To baffle and outwit the wife:
The Cobler, ere expos'd to view,
Had juft pull'd off his Jerkin blue;
Not dreaming 'twould his Neighbour hurt,
To fit in Fresco in his Shirt,
Ah! quoth the Patient, with a Sigh,
You know him not fo well as I;
The Man who down my Throat is run,
Has got a true-blue Jerkin on.
In vain the Doctor rav'd and tore,
Argu'd and fretted, ftamp'd and fwore;
Told him he might believe as well,
The Giant of Pantagruel
Did oft, as break his Faft or fup,
For poach'd Eggs fwallow Windmills up;
Or that the Holland Dame could bear
A Child, for ev'ry Day i'th' Year.
The vapour'd Dotard, grave and fly,
Mistook for Truth each rapping Lye;
And drew Conclufions fuch as thefe,
Refiftlefs, from the Premiffes.
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