For surgeon, clerk, sexton, and coachman conspire,
To mangle the corpse, and the bones join with wire.
XIV.
In the country we’re healthy, all vigour and spunk,
No doctor we want, but to make him dead drunk;
Nor yet patent-coffins; for, once in the ground,
Our bodies are snug, till the trumpet’s last sound.
XV.
Now suppose you a flat, and addicted to play,
In London a sharp will seize on you as prey;