Читать книгу A Satire Anthology - Wells Carolyn - Страница 34

I  sent for Ratcliffe; was so ill,

That other doctors gave me over:

He felt my pulse, prescribed his pill,

And I was likely to recover.

But when the wit began to wheeze,

And wine had warm’d the politician,

Cured yesterday of my disease,

I died last night of my physician.