Vex'd with dull megrim, or vertigo light;
Pleas'd round the fair Three dawdling doctors stand,
Wave the white wig, and stretch the asking hand,
State the grave doubt, the nauseous draught decree,
And all receive, tho' none deserve, a fee.
So down thy hill, romantic Ashbourn, glides
The Derby dilly, carrying Three Insides.
One in each corner sits, and lolls at ease,
With folded arms, propt back, and outstretch'd knees;
While the press'd Bodkin, punch'd and squeez'd to death,