'Tis so painful--
_Dr. Tory_.--Pooh, nonsense--ask Ude how he feels,
When, for Epicure feasts, he prepares his live eels,
By flinging them in, 'twixt the bars of the fire,
And letting them wriggle on there till they tire.
_He_, too, says "'tis painful"--"quite makes his heart bleed"--
But "Your eels are a vile, oleaginous breed."--
He would fain use them gently, but Cookery says "No,"
And--in short--eels were _born_ to be treated just so.[2]
'Tis the same with these Irish,--who're odder fish still,--
Your tender Whig heart shrinks from using them ill;
I myself in my youth, ere I came to get wise,
Used at some operations to blush to the eyes:--
But, in fact, my dear brother,--if I may make bold
To style you, as Peachum did Lockit, of old,--
We, Doctors, _must_ act with the firmness of Ude,
And, indifferent like him,--so the fish is _but_ stewed,--
_Must_ torture live Pats for the general good.
[_Here patient groans and kicks a little_.]
_Dr. Whig_.--But what, if one's patient's so devilish perverse,
That he _won't_ be thus tortured?
_Dr. Tory_. Coerce, sir, coerce.
You're a juvenile performer, but once you begin,
You can't think how fast you may train your hand in:
And (_smiling_) who knows but old Tory may take to the shelf,
With the comforting thought that, in place and in pelf,
He's succeeded by one just as--bad as himself?
_Dr.
Pages:
1203
1204
1205
1206
1207
1208
1209
1210
1211
1212
1213
1214
1215
1216
1217
1218
1219
1220
1221
1222
1223
1224
1225
1226
1227