You answered really, really well,
You really deserve to enter
into our learned group
Eighth Doctor
I beg leave of you, sir, who are in charge, of the select assembly of doctors, both practicing and eager to practice, and of the curious flock of onlookers.
Oh so smart Baccalaureate holder, who so far could not be outflanked, I shall ask you one important question. Sirs, give us your attention. Quite early to-day, slightly before I had breakfast, a once lovely young Italian lady came to me. In fact, I still think of her as being somewhat a young girl. She was all pale-fleshed. The best doctors call it a white fever. She came complaining of a migraine, of shortness of breath, of feeling overburdened, of swollen legs and terrible weariness; of a pounding heart, and of a choked feeling, also called hysterical inhalation, which, like all illnesses ending in –ic, casts a snub on Galen. She appeared worn out and looked as green as goose droppings. Judging from her small racing heartbeat and the foul urine she brought in a container, she appeared not to be free of feverish bouts. Lastly, she was so weak that she came from her bed on horseback, actually, it was a mule. She hadn’t had her menses since that day that is called the day of lots of water. But she told me in my ear that it was a real marvel that she wasn’t dead. Because in her line of work there wasn’t much love, just too much heartiness. Her gallant guy had gone to Germany to serve on a campaign for mister Brandenburg. So far a bunch of charlatans, doctors, apothecaries, and surgeons have been working in vain to cure her illness, going so far as the new influenzas of that dopey Van Helmont, using everything from crab eyes to alchemy.
Kindly tell me what’s left, in keeping with orthodoxy, to do for her.
Baccalaureate Holder
Give a clyster,
Afterwards purify,