Restless and sick poor SILVIA lay,
In darken'd room confin'd.
And thought the melancholy hours,
Lagg'd lazyly behind.
Long were the nights; nurse very dull;
Her physic had no force;
The couch was queer; the chairs were bad;
The bed was ten times worse.
To her a second RATCLIFE comes;
Madam, how is't to-day?
Oh! bad. Oh! very bad indeed:
This pain won't go away.
He stands at window full of thought,
Just like a pigg at piss.
Says he, Your cure is in my hands,
If you can solve me this.
A noted person's passing by,
Who's known the city round:
The moment that you guess his name,
Your certain cure is found.
Then sickly SILVIA rais'd her head,
In hopes of having ease;
And with a look and voice most sweet,
I'll try, Sir, if you please.
Is't my lord mayor, or squire CATCH;
Or one of the ale-conners?
Sheriffs, Recorder, Chamberlain,
Or any of their honours?
Is't CALEB DANVERS, or is't FOGG:
Or WALSINGHAM in chariot?
Or Lady OSBORNE through the streets
Fast trudging from her garret?
Is't Doctor HYP, or ROCK, or MOORE,
The Penny-Post, or so?
At which the doctor look'd most wise,
And gravely answer'd, No.
Then SILVIA with soft piteous tone,
I'm tir'd upon my word, man;
Nor have I any hopes of ease,
Except it be TOM Turd-man.
That's he! that's he! the doctor cry'd.
At which her sides she shook,
With laughter loud so heartily,
That her imposthume* broke.
The doctor pleas'd, and SILVIA eas'd,
Both beg that CLLY BAYS,
For this great cure so quickly wrought,
Will sing TOM TURD-MAN's praise.