In six months, his acquaintance began much to doubt him: For his skin, "like a lady's loose gown," hung about him. He sent for a Doctor; and cried, like a ninny, "I have lost many pounds--make me well--there's a guinea."
The Doctor look'd wise:--"a slow fever," he said: Prescribe'd sudorificks,--and going to bed. "Sudorificks in bed," exclaim'd WILL, "are humbugs! I've enough of them there, without paying for drugs!"
WILL kick'd out the Doctor:--but, when ill indeed, E'en dismissing the Doctor don't _always_ succeed; So, calling his host--he said--"Sir, do you know, I'm the fat Single Gentleman, six months ago?
"Look'e, landlord, I think," argued WILL, with a grin, "That with honest intentions you first _took me in_: But from the first night--and to say it I'm bold-- I have been so damn'd hot, that I'm sure I caught cold."
Quoth the landlord--"till now, I ne'er had a dispute; I've let lodgings ten years;--I'm a Baker, to boot; In airing your sheets, Sir, my wife is no sloven; And your bed is immediately over my Oven."
"The Oven!!!" says WILL;--says the host, "why this passion? In that excellent bed died three people of fashion. Why so crusty, good Sir?"--"Zounds!" cries WILL, in a taking, "Who wouldn't be crusty, with half a year's baking?"
WILL paid for his rooms;--cried the host, with a sneer, "Well, I see you've been _going away_ half a year:" "Friend, we can't well agree,--yet no quarrel"--WILL said;-- "But I'd rather not _perish_, while you _make your bread_."[2]
IN our Fifth Harry's reign, when 'twas the fashion To thump the French, poor creatures! to excess;-- Tho' Britons, now a days, shew more compassion, And thump them, certainly, a great deal less;--
In Harry's reign, when flush'd Lancastrian roses Of York's pale blossoms had usurp'd the right;[3] As wine drives Nature out of drunkards' noses, Till red, triumphantly, eclipses white;-- In Harry's reign--but let me to my song, Or good king Harry's reign may seem too long.
SIR THOMAS ERPINGHAM, a gallant knight, When this king Harry went to war, in France, Girded a sword about his middle; Resolving, very lustily, to fight, And teach the Frenchmen how to dance, Without a fiddle.
And wond'rous bold Sir Thomas prove'd in battle, Performing prodigies, with spear and shield; His valour, like a murrain among cattle, Was reckon'd very fatal in the field. Yet, tho' Sir Thomas had an iron fist, He was, at heart, a mild Philanthropist.