Plate I.
We all are a wonderful distance from home! Two hundred and sixty long miles are we come! 'Tis a plaguy long way! but I ne'er can repine, As my stomach is weak and my spirits decline: For the people cry here, be whatever your case, You are sure to get well if you come to this place. As we all came for health (as a body may say), I sent for the doctor the very next day; And the doctor was pleased, though so short was the warning, To come to our lodging betimes in the morning: He looked very thoughtful and grave, to be sure, And I said to myself, There's no hopes of a cure! But I thought I should faint when I saw him, dear Mother, Feel my pulse with one hand, and a watch in the other: No token of death that is heard in the night Could ever have put me so much in a fright: Thinks I, 'tis all over, my sentence is past, And now he is counting how long I may last.
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And so, as I grew every day worse and worse, The doctor advised me to send for a nurse. And the nurse was so willing my health to restore, She begged me to send for a few doctors more; For when any difficult work's to be done, Many heads can despatch it much sooner than one; And I find there are doctors enough at this place, If you want to consult in a dangerous case!
COMFORTS OF BATH. II.
Plate II.
Why, Peter's a critic—with true Attic salt Can damn the performers, can hiss, and find fault, And tell when we ought to express approbation, By thumping, and clapping, and vociferation; But Jack Dilettante despises the play'rs— To concerts and musical parties repairs, With benefit-tickets his pockets he fills, Like a mountebank doctor distributes his bills; And thus his importance and interest shows, By conferring his favours wherever he goes; He's extremely polite both to me and my cousin, For he often desires us to take off a dozen; He has taste, without doubt, and a delicate ear, No vile oratorios ever could bear; But talks of the op'ras and his signora, Cries Bravo, benissimo, bravo, encora! And oft is so kind as to thrust in a note While old Lady Cuckow is straining her throat, Or little Miss Wren, who's an excellent singer; Then he points to the notes with a ring on his finger, And shows her the crotchet, the quaver, and bar, All the time that she warbles and plays the guitar; Yet I think, though she's at it from morning till noon, The queer little thingumbob's never in tune.