He had a Patient lying at death's door, Some three miles from the town,--it might be four; To whom, one evening, Bolus sent an article, In Pharmacy, that's call'd cathartical. And, on the label of the stuff, He wrote this verse; Which, one would think, was clear enough, And terse:-- "_When taken, To be well shaken._" Next morning, early, Bolus rose; And to the Patient's house he goes;-- Upon his pad, Who a vile trick of stumbling had: It was, indeed, a very sorry hack; But that's of course: For what's expected from a horse With an Apothecary on his back? Bolus arrive'd; and gave a doubtful tap;-- Between a single and a double rap.-- Knocks of this kind Are given by Gentlemen who teach to dance: By Fiddlers, and by Opera-singers: One loud, and then a little one behind; As if the knocker fell, by chance, Out of their fingers. The Servant lets him in, with dismal face, Long as a courtier's out of place-- Portending some disaster; John's countenance as rueful look'd, and grim, As if th' Apothecary had physick'd him,-- And not his master. "Well, how's the Patient?" Bolus said:-- John shook his head. "Indeed!--hum! ha!--that's very odd! He took the draught?"--John gave a nod. "Well,--how?--what then?--speak out, you dunce!" "Why then"--says John--"we _shook_ him once." "Shook him!--how?"--Bolus stammer'd out: "We jolted him about." "Zounds! Shake a Patient, man!--a shake won't do." "No, Sir,--and so we gave him _two_." "Two shakes! od's curse! 'Twould make the Patient worse." "It did so, Sir!--and so a third we tried." "Well, and what then?"--"then, Sir, my master died." [Illustration] Ere WILL had done 'twas waxing wond'rous late; And reeling Bucks the streets began to scour; While guardian Watchmen, with a tottering gait, Cried every thing, quite clear, except the hour. "Another pot," says TOM, "and then, A Song;--and so good night, good Gentlemen! "I've Lyricks, such as _Bons Vivants_ indite, In which your bibbers of Champagne delight,-- The Poetaster, bawling them in clubs, Obtains a miserably noted name; And every noisy Bacchanalian dubs The Singing-Writer with a bastard Fame." [Illustration] LODGINGS FOR SINGLE GENTLEMEN. WHO has e'er been in London, that overgrown place, Has seen "_Lodgings to Let_" stare him full in the face: Some are good, and let dearly; while some, 'tis well known, Are so dear, and so bad, they are best let alone. WILL WADDLE, whose temper was studious and lonely, Hire'd lodgings that took Single Gentlemen only; But WILL was so fat he appear'd like a ton;-- Or like Two Single Gentlemen roll'd into One.