In succession they thumped his august chest,
But no trace of disease could find.
The old sage said, “You’re as sound as a nut.”
“Hang him up,” roared the King in a gale—
In a ten-knot gale of royal rage;
The other leech grew a shade pale;
But he pensively rubbed his sagacious nose,
And thus his prescription ran—
The King will be well if he sleeps one night
In the shirt of a happy man.