"Well, I would rather have stuff there than in my head," answered Edward.
"Very epigrammatic, indeed, Master Ned," said the doctor. "Let us make a distich of it," added he, with a chuckle; "for, of a verity, some of the K. C.'s of our times are but dunces. Let's see—how will it go?"
Edward dashed off this couplet in a moment—
"Of modern king's counsel this truth may be said,
They have silk on their shoulders, and stuff in their head."
"Neat enough," said the doctor; "but you might contrive more sting in it—something to the tune of the impossibility of making 'a silk purse out of a sow's ear,' but the facility of manufacturing silk gowns out of bores' heads."
"That's out of your bitter pill-box, Doctor," said Ned, smiling.
"Put it into rhyme, Ned—and set it to music—and dedicate it to the bar mess, and see how you'll rise in your profession! Good bye—I will be back again to see the fun as soon as I can, but I must go now and visit an old woman who is in doubt whether she stands most in need of me or the priest. It's wonderful, how little people think of the other world till they are going to leave this; and, with all their praises of heaven, how very anxious they are to stay out of it as long as they can."
With this bit of characteristic sarcasm, the doctor and Edward separated.
Edward had hardly left the hustings, when Murphy hurried on the platform and asked for him.