"Now, as all wish'd to speak, but none knew what to say, They look'd mighty foolish and queer: At length spoke the lady with trembling--'I pray, Dear sir, that your peruke aside you would lay, And partake of some strong or small beer.' "The bride shuts her fly-trap--the stranger complies, And his wig from his phiz deigns to pull. Adzooks! what a squall Sally gave through surprise! Like a pig that was stuck, how she opened her eyes, When she recognized Giles's bare skull. "Each miss then exclaimed, while she turn'd up her snout, 'Sir, your head isn't fit to be seen!'-- The pot-boys ran in, and the pot-boys ran out, And couldn't conceive what the noise was about, While the doctor addressed Sally Green. "'Behold me, thou jilt-flirt! behold me!' he cri'd-- 'I'm Bolus, whom some call the 'knave!' God grant, that to punish your falsehood and pride, You should feel at this moment a pain in your side. Quick, swallow this rhubarb!--I'll physic the bride, And send her well-dosed to the grave!' "Thus saying, the physic her throat he forced down, In spite of whate'er she could say: Then bore to his chariot the maiden so brown, Nor ever again was she seen in that town, Or the doctor who whisked her away. "Not long lived the brewer, and none since that time To inhabit the brew-house presume; For old women say that by order sublime There Sally Green suffers the pain of her crime, And bawls to get out of the room. "At midnight four times in each year does her sprite With shrieks make the chamber resound. 'I won't take the rhubarb!' she squalls in affright, While a cup in his left hand, a draught in his right, Giles Bolus pursues her around. "With wigs so well powdered, twelve doctors so grave, Dancing hornpipes around them are seen; They drink chicken-broth, and this horrible stave Is twanged through each nose, 'To Giles Bolus the knave, And his patient the sick Sally Green.'"