^  I  hope,  my  friends,  you'll  grant  me  all,
A  windmill's  bigger  than  a  stall :
And  since  the  lady  brought,  alive.
Children  three  hundred  sixty-five.
Why  should  you  think  there  is  not  room
For  one  poor  Cobbler  in  my  womb  !"
Thus,  everything  his  friends  could  say.
The  more  confirm 'd  him  in  his  way  ;
Further  convinced  by  what  they  tel^
'Twas  certain,  though  impossible.
Now  worse  and  worse  his  piteous  state
Was  grown,  and  almost  desperate  ;
Yet  still  the  utmost  bent  to  try,
Without  more  help  he  would  not  die.
An  old  physician,  sly  and  shrewd.
With  management  of  face  endued.
Heard  all  his  tale,  and  ask'd,  with  care,
How  long  the  Cobbler  had  been  there ;
Noted  distinctly  what  he  said.
Lift  up  his  eyes  and  shook  his  head ;


394


THOMAS   WARTON.
And,  grave,  accosts  him  in  this  fashion.
After  mature  deliberation.
With  serious  and  important  face  :
**  Sir,  yours  is  an  uncommon  case  :
Though  I've  read  Galen's  Latin  o'er,
I  never  met  with  it  before  ;
Nor  have  I  found  the  like  disease
In  stories  of  Hippocrates."
Then,  after  a  convenient  stay,
**  Sir,  if  prescription  you'll  obey,
My  life  for  yours,  I'll  set  you  free
From  this  same  two-legg*d  tympany.
♦  ♦  ♦  Your  throat,  you  know,  is  wide,
And  scarcely  closed  since  it  was  tried.
The  same  way  he  got  in,  'tis  plain.
There's  room  to  fetch  him  back  again.
I'll  bring  the  forked  worm  away
Without  a  dysenteria.
Emetics  strong  will  do  the  feat.
If  taken  quantum  sufficU,
I'll  see  myself  the  proper  dose,
And  go  hypnotics  to  compose."

The  wretch,  though  languishing  and  weak.
