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 warmed the politician, Cured yesterday of my disease, I died last night of my physician. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DRAPIER'S HILL by JONATHAN SWIFT ITYLUS by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE OUR STATE by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER LINES FROM A PLUTOCRATIC POETASTER TO A DITCH-DIGGER by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS TOLEDO CAPTURED BY THE FRANKS by AL-ASSAL WAR DEAD by PATRICK JOHN MCALISTER ANDERSON LILIES: 21. ART NEEDS THEE by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) |