I think I'm very fairly off. My lady now returning home, Calls "Cracherode, is the Doctor come?" He had not heard of him--"Pray see, 'Tis now a quarter after three." The captain walks about, and searches Through all the rooms, and courts, and arches; Examines all the servants round, In vain--no doctor's to be found. My lady could not choose but wonder; "Captain, I fear you've made some blunder; But, pray, to-morrow go at ten; I'll try his manners once again; If rudeness be th' effect of knowledge, My son shall never see a college." The captain was a man of reading, And much good sense, as well as breeding; Who, loath to blame, or to incense, Said little in his own defence. Next day another message brought; The Doctor, frighten'd at his fault, Is dress'd, and stealing through the crowd, Now pale as death, then blush'd and bow'd, Panting--and faltering--humm'd and ha'd, "Her ladyship was gone abroad: The captain too--he did not know Whether he ought to stay or go;" Begg'd she'd forgive him. In conclusion, My lady, pitying his confusion, Call'd her good nature to relieve him; Told him, she thought she might believe him; And would not only grant his suit, But visit him, and eat some fruit, Provided, at a proper time, He told the real truth in rhyme; 'Twas to no purpose to oppose, She'd hear of no excuse in prose. The Doctor stood not to debate, Glad to compound at any rate; So, bowing, seemingly complied; Though, if he durst, he had denied. But first, resolved to show his taste, Was too refined to give a feast; He'd treat with nothing that was rare, But winding walks and purer air; Would entertain without expense, Or pride or vain magnificence: For well he knew, to such a guest The plainest meals must be the best. To stomachs clogg'd with costly fare Simplicity alone is rare; While high, and nice, and curious meats Are really but vulgar treats. Instead of spoils of Persian looms, The costly boast of regal rooms, Thought it more courtly and discreet To scatter roses at her feet; Roses of richest dye, that shone With native lustre, like her own; Beauty that needs no aid of art Through every sense to reach the heart. The gracious dame, though well she knew All this was much beneath her due, Liked everything--at least thought fit To praise it _par manière d'acquit_. Yet she, though seeming pleased, can't bear The scorching sun, or chilling air; Disturb'd alike at both extremes, Whether he shows or hides his beams: Though seeming pleased at all she sees, Starts at the ruffling of the trees, And scarce can speak for want of breath, In half a walk fatigued to death. The Doctor takes his hint from hence, T' apologize his late offence: "Madam, the mighty power of use Now strangely pleads in my excuse; If you unused have scarcely strength To gain this walk's untoward length; If, frighten'd at a scene so rude, Through long disuse of solitude; If, long confined to fires and screens, You dread the waving of these greens;