He enter'd his rooms, and to bed he retreated; But, all the night long, he felt fever'd, and heated; And, tho' heavy to weigh, as a score of fat sheep, He was not, by any means, heavy to sleep. Next night 'twas the same!--and the next;--and the next; He perspire'd like an ox; he was nervous, and vex'd; Week past after week; till, by weekly succession, His weakly condition was past all expression. In six months, his acquaintance began much to doubt him: For his skin, "like a lady's loose gown," hung about him. He sent for a Doctor; and cried, like a ninny, "I have lost many pounds--make me well--there's a guinea." The Doctor look'd wise:--"a slow fever," he said: Prescribe'd sudorificks,--and going to bed. "Sudorificks in bed," exclaim'd WILL, "are humbugs! I've enough of them there, without paying for drugs!" WILL kick'd out the Doctor:--but, when ill indeed, E'en dismissing the Doctor don't _always_ succeed; So, calling his host--he said--"Sir, do you know, I'm the fat Single Gentleman, six months ago? "Look'e, landlord, I think," argued WILL, with a grin, "That with honest intentions you first _took me in_: But from the first night--and to say it I'm bold-- I have been so damn'd hot, that I'm sure I caught cold." Quoth the landlord--"till now, I ne'er had a dispute; I've let lodgings ten years;--I'm a Baker, to boot; In airing your sheets, Sir, my wife is no sloven; And your bed is immediately over my Oven." "The Oven!!!" says WILL;--says the host, "why this passion? In that excellent bed died three people of fashion. Why so crusty, good Sir?"--"Zounds!" cries WILL, in a taking, "Who wouldn't be crusty, with half a year's baking?" WILL paid for his rooms;--cried the host, with a sneer, "Well, I see you've been _going away_ half a year:" "Friend, we can't well agree,--yet no quarrel"--WILL said;-- "But I'd rather not _perish_, while you _make your bread_."[2] [Illustration] [Illustration] THE KNIGHT AND THE FRIAR. PART FIRST. IN our Fifth Harry's reign, when 'twas the fashion To thump the French, poor creatures! to excess;-- Tho' Britons, now a days, shew more compassion, And thump them, certainly, a great deal less;-- In Harry's reign, when flush'd Lancastrian roses Of York's pale blossoms had usurp'd the right;[3] As wine drives Nature out of drunkards' noses, Till red, triumphantly, eclipses white;-- In Harry's reign--but let me to my song, Or good king Harry's reign may seem too long. SIR THOMAS ERPINGHAM, a gallant knight, When this king Harry went to war, in France, Girded a sword about his middle; Resolving, very lustily, to fight, And teach the Frenchmen how to dance, Without a fiddle.