By dint of turning mercury to gold,

Had settled at his country house in quiet.

Our Patient, after some impatient rambles

Thro’ Enfield roads, and Enfield lanes of brambles,

At last, to make enquiry had the nous,—

“Here, my good man,

Just tell me if you can,

Pray which is Mr. Aberfeldie’s house?”

The man thus stopp’d—perusing for a while

The yellow visage of the man of bile,