Nor any more with me your wise heads bother,
Scratching your wigs,
Like sapient pigs;
Whate'er you may decide is my disease,
I humbly do conceive a little ease
From your infernal noise and chatter.
With which I'm dunn'd
And nearly stunn'd,
Would greatly tend to mend the matter;
And if, perforce, I must resign my breath,