TO MY DOCTOR IN BED.
With much regret I hear it said
That you, dear doctor, are in bed,
Quite invalided.
For you the uninviting fare—
The broth, the gruel, made with care,
The milk—is needed.
I mourn, yet grimly chuckle, too,
When thinking that not I, but you,
Should be a fixture;
Not I, but you, must sadly sip,
With utterly unwilling lip,
Some awful mixture.
Not I, but you, must now obey
What dictatorial doctors say,
So interfering!
I might perhaps be less averse
To some attractive youthful nurse,
And find her cheering.
In weather such as we have had,
Your fate may not have been so bad;
In bed one lingers
When blizzards bite the bluish nose,
When cold half numbs the tortured toes,
The frozen fingers.
So I perhaps should envy you,
With nothing in the world to do
But, idly dozy,
And disregarding snow and storm,
To just be comfortably warm,
And snugly cosy.
To pass the time, your pulse you feel,
And dream of charms all ills to heal,
Like some magician;
In mirrors you may see your tongue;
You cannot listen to your lung,
My poor physician.
You read the Lancet, I should say,
Or books on your complaint, all day,
Stiff-bound or limp tomes,
And when you put the volumes by,
You lie and sigh and try and di-
-agnose your symptoms.