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"It did so, sir-and so a third we tried."
'Well, and what then ?"" Then, sir, my


"Shook him!-how?" Bolus stammer'd out.


We jolted him about."

“Zounds! shake a patient, man—a shake won't do."
"No, sir, and so we gave him two."
"Two shakes!-odds curse!

"Twould make the patient worse."

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master died!"


WHO has e'er been in London, that overgrown place,
Has seen "Lodgings to Let" stare him full in the face:
Some are good, and let dearly; while some, 'tis well known,
Are so dear, and so bad, they are best let alone.

Will Waddle, whose temper was studious and lonely,
Hired lodgings that took Single Gentlemen only;
But Will was so fat, he appear'd like a tun,
Or like two single gentlemen roll❜d into one.

He enter'd his rooms, and to bed he retreated;
But all the night long he felt fever'd and heated;
And, though heavy to weigh, as a score of fat sheep,
He was not, by any means, heavy to sleep.

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Next night 'twas the same! and the next! and the next!
He perspired like an ox; he was nervous and vex'd.
Week pass'd after week, till by weekly succession,
His weakly condition was past all expression.

In six months bis acquaintance began much to doubt him;
For his skin, “like a lady's loose gown,” hung about him!
So 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;
Prescribed sudorifics-and going to bed.

Sudorifics 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 ye, 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've been so very hot, that I'm sure I've 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!" cried Will in a taking, "Who would not be crusty, with half a year's baking ?”

Will paid for his rooms:-cried the host, with a sneer, "Well, I see you have 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."

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AND thou hast walk'd about (how strange a story!)
In Thebes's streets three thousand years ago,
When the Memnonium was in all its glory,

And time had not begun to overthrow
Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous,
Of which the very ruins are tremendous.

Speak! for thou long enough hast acted dummy, Thou hast a tongue-come let us hear its tune; Thou'rt standing on thy legs, above ground, Mummy!

Revisiting the glimpses of the moon,

Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures.
But with thy bones and flesh, and limbs and features.

Tell us for doubtless thou canst recollect

To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame? Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect

Of either pyramid that bears his name?
Is Pompey's pillar really a misnomer?
Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer?

Perchance that very hand, now pinion'd flat,

Has hob-a-nobb'd with Pharaoh glass to glass;
Or dropp'd a halfpenny in Homer's hat,

Or doff'd thine own to let Queen Dido pass,
Or held, by Solomon's own invitation,
A torch at the great Temple's dedication.

I need not ask thee if that hand, when arm'd,
Has any Roman soldier maul'd and knuckled,
For thou wert dead and buried and embalm'd,

Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled:
Antiquity appears to have begun

Long after thy primeval race was run.


Since first thy form was in this box extended,

We have, above ground, seen some strange mutations; The Roman empire has begun and ended,

New worlds have risen-we have lost old nations, And countless kings have into dust been humbled, While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled.

Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head,
When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses,
March'd armies o'er thy tomb with thundering tread,
O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis,

And shook the Pyramids with fear and wonder,
When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder?

If the tomb's secrets may not be confess'd,

The nature of thy private life unfold :-
A heart has throbb'd beneath that leathern breast,

And tears adown that dusty cheek have roll'd :. Have children climb'd those knees and kiss'd that face? What was thy name and station, age and race?

Statue of flesh-immortal of the dead!
Imperishable type of evanescence!
Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy narrow bed,
And standest undecayed within our presence,
Thou wilt hear nothing till the judgment morning,
When the great trump shall thrill thee with its warning.

Why should this worthless tegument endure,
If its undying guest be lost for ever?
Oh! let us keep the soul embalm'd and pure

In living virtue, that when both must sever,
Although corruption may our frame consume,
The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom.


A WELL there is in the west country,
And a clearer one never was seen;
There is not a wife in the west country,
But has heard of the well of St. Keyne.

An oak and an elm tree stand beside,
And behind does an ash-tree grow;
And a willow from the bank above,
Droops to the water below.

A traveller came to the well of St. Keyne,
Joyfully he drew nigh;

For from cock-crow he had been travelling,
And there was not a cloud in the sky.


He drank of the water so cool and clear,

For thirsty and hot was he; And he sat down upon the bank,

Under the willow-tree.

There came a man from the neighbouring town, At the well to fill his pail;

On the well-side he rested it,

And he bade the stranger hail.

Now, art thou a bachelor, stranger ?" quoth he; "For an if thou hast a wife,

The happiest draught thou hast drank this day, That ever thou didst in thy life.


Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast,
Ever here in Cornwall been?

For an if she have, I'll venture my life,
She has drank of the Well of St. Keyne."

"I have left a good woman who never was here," The stranger he made reply;

"But that my draught should be better for that, I pray you answer me why."

"St. Keyne," quoth the Cornishman, "many a time Drank of this crystal well;

And before the angel summon'd her,
She laid on the water a spell.

"If the husband of this gifted well
Shall drink before his wife,
A happy man henceforth is he,
For he shall be master for life.

"But if the wife should drink of it first,
God help the husband then!"

The stranger stoop'd to the well of St. Keyne,
And drank of the water again.

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