But doctors oft differ; so, were you my brother,
I can’t answer, till that too be fee’d, for the other.
Then spreading his hand, like a churchwarden’s plate,
“Come, come, my good friend, don’t stand scratching your pate!
But wet t’other eye, like a fool, as you ought,
Time’s too precious for me thus to waste it for mought.”
Says Hob—“Here’s the stuff! but, as I am a ninny,
I’m handing thee, now, Master Brief, my last guinea;
So I hopes as you’ll give me the best of advice!”—
“To be sure! to be sure!” cries Brief, “in a trice.