If much he griev'd our Don before,
When but o' th' outside of the door,
How sorely must he now molest,
When got the inside of his breast?
The waking dreamer groans and swells,
And pangs imaginary feels:

Catches and scraps of tunes he hears
For ever ringing in his ears;

Ill savour'd smells his nose displease,
Mundungus strong, and rotten cheese:
He feels him when he draws his breath,
Or tugs the leather with his teeth,
Or beats the sole, or else extends
His arm to th' utmost of his ends,
Enough to crack, when stretch'd so wide,
The ribs of any mortal side.

Is there no method then, to fly
This vile intestine enemy?

What can be done in this condition,
But sending instant for physician?

The doctor, having heard the case,
Burst into laughter in his face,
Told him he need no more than rise,
Open his windows and his eyes,
Whistling and stitching, there to see
The Cobbler as he used to be.

"Sir," quoth the patient, "your pretences

Shall ne'er persuade me from my senses.
How should I rise? the heavy brute

Will hardly let me wag a foot.

Though seeing for belief may go,
Yet feeling is the truth, you know.
I feel him in my sides, I tell ye;
Had you a Cobbler in your belly,
You scarce could stir as now you
do;
I doubt your guts would grumble too.
Still do you laugh? I tell you, Sir,
I'd kick you soundly, could I stir.
Thou quack, that never hadst degree
In either University;

Thou mere licentiate without knowledge,
The shame and scandal of the college;
I'll call my servants if you stay;
So, doctor, scamper while you may!"

One thus dispatch'd, a second came,
Of equal or of greater fame,
Who swore him mad as a March hare;
For doctors, when provok'd, will swear.
To drive such whimsies from his pate,
He dragg'd him to the window straight;
But jilting Fortune can devise

To baffle and outwit the wise.
The Cobbler, ere exposed to view,
Had just pull'd off his jerkin blue,

Not dreaming 'twould his neighbour hurt,
To sit in fresco in his shirt.

"O," quoth the patient, with a sigh,

"You know him not so well as I.

The man that down my throat is run,
Has got a true blue jerkin on."

In vain the doctor rav'd and tore,

Argued and fretted, stamp'd and swore;
Told him he might believe as well,
The giant of Pantagruel

Did oft, to break his fast and sup,
For potch'd eggs swallow windmills up;
Or that the Holland dame could bear
A child for every day o' th' year.
The vapour'd dotard, grave and sly,
Mistook for truth each rapping lie,
And drew conclusions such as these,
Resistless, from the premises.

"I hope, my friends, you'll grant me all,
A windmill's bigger than a stall:
And since the lady brought, alive,
Children three hundred sixty-five,
Why should you think there is not room
For one poor Cobbler in my womb?”
Thus, every thing his friends could say,
The more confirm'd him in his way;
Further convinc'd by what they tell,
"Twas certain, though impossible.

Now worse and worse his piteous state
Was grown, and almost desperate;
Yet still the utmost bent to try,
Without more help he would not die.
An old physician, sly and shrewd,
With management of face endued,
Heard all his tale, and ask'd, with care,
How long the Cobbler had been there;

Noted distinctly what he said,

Lift up his eyes and shook his head;
And, grave, accosts him in this fashion,
After mature deliberation,

With serious and important face:
"Sir, yours is an uncommon case:
Though I've read Galen's Latin o'er,
I never met with it before;

Nor have I found the like disease
In stories of Hippocrates."
Then, after a convenient stay,
"Sir, if prescription you'll obey,
My life for yours, I'll set you free
From this same two-legg'd tympany.
*** Your throat, you know, is wide,
And scarcely clos'd since it was tried.
The same way he got in, 'tis plain,
There's room to fetch him back again.
I'll bring the forked worm away
Without a dysenteria.

Emetics strong will do the feat,
If taken quantum sufficit.

I'll see myself the proper dose,
And go hypnotics to compose."

The wretch, though languishing and weak,

Reviv'd already by the Greek,

Cries, "what so learn'd a man as you
Prescribes, dear doctor, I shall do."

The vomit speedily was got,

The Cobbler sent for to the spot,

And taught to manage the deceit,
And not his doublet to forget.
But first, the operator wise
Over his eyes a bandage ties,
For vomits always strain the eyes.
"Courage! I'll make you disembogue,
Spite of his teeth, th' unlucky rogue;
I'll drench the rascal, never fear,

And bring him up, or drown him there."
Warm water down he makes him pour,
Till his stretch'd guts could hold no more;
Which, doubly swoln, as you may think,
Both with the Cobbler and the drink;
What they receiv'd against the grain,
Soon paid with interest back again.
"Here come his tools: he can't be long,
Without his hammer and his thong."
The Cobbler humour'd what was spoke,
And gravely carried on the joke;
As he heard nam'd each single matter,
He chuck'd it souse into the water;
And then, not to be seen as yet,
Behind the door made his retreat.
The sick man now takes breath awhile,
Strength to recruit for farther toil:
Unblinded, he, with joyful eyes,
The tackle floating there espies;
Fully convinc'd within his mind,
The Cobbler would not stay behind,
Who to the alehouse still would go,
Whene'er he wanted work to do;