Now this being known, how his Fame it did ring, And unto the Doctor much trading did bring; They came to the Doctor out of e'ery Shire, From all Parts and Places, yea both far and near. Both _Dutchmen_ and _Scotchmen_ to _London_ did ride, With _Shonny-ap-Morgan_, and Thousands beside; Thus all sorts and sizes, both rich Men and poor, They came in whole Cart-loads to this Doctor's door. Some whining, some weeping, some careful and sad, And some was contented, and others born mad; Some crooked, some straight Horns, and some overgrown, The like in all Ages I think was ne'er known. Some rich and brave flourishing Cuckolds were there, That came in whole Droves, Sir, as if to _Horn-Fair_; For now there is hopes to be cur'd of their Grief, The Doctor declares in the Fall of the Leaf. Let none be so foolish as now to neglect, This Doctor's great Kindness and civil Respect; Tho' rich Men may pay, yet the Poor may go free, So kind and so courteous a Doctor is he. 'Tis known he so worthy a Conscience doth make, Poor Cuckolds he'll cure them for Charity sake; Nay, farther than this still his Love does enlarge, Providing for them at his own Cost and Charge. But some are so wicked, that they will exclaim Against their poor Wives, making 'em bare the Blame; And will not look out in the least for a Cure, But all their sad Pains and their Tortures endure. But 'tis without reason, for he that is born Under such a Planet, is Heir to the Horn: Then come to the Doctor both rich Men and Poor, He'll carefully cure you, what would you have more? The Term of his Time here the Doctor does write, From six in the Morning 'till seven at Night; Where in his own Chamber he still will remain, At the Sign of the _Woodcock_ in _Vinegar-lane_. _The Doctor doth here likewise present you with the Receipt of his Infallible Medicine, that those which have no occasion for it themselves, may do good to their Neighbours and Acquaintances: And take it here as followeth._ Take five Pound of Brains of your _December_ Flies, And forty true Tears from a _Crocodile's_ Eyes; The Wit of a _Weasel_, the Wool of a _Frog_, With an Ounce of Conserve of _Michaelmas_ Fog. And make him a Poultis when he goes to Bed, To bind to his Temples behind of his Head; As hot as the Patient he well can endure, And this is for Cuckolds an absolute Cure. _A_ SONG. Good Neighbour why do you look awry, You are a wond'rous Stranger; You walk about, you huff and pout, As if you'd burst with Anger: Is it for that your Fortune's great, Or you so Wealthy are? Or live so high there's none a-nigh That can with you compare? But t'other Day I heard one say, Your Husband durst not show his Ears, But like a Lout does walk about, So full of Sighs and Fears: Good Mrs. _Tart_, I caren't a Fart, For you nor all your Jears.