Now don't make a joke of That feeling I spoke of; For, as sure as you're born, that same feeling,-whate'er It may be, saves the life of the young Mousquetaire !The knife, that was levell'd erewhile at his throat, Is employ'd now in ripping the lace from his coat, And from what, I suppose, I must call his culotte;

And his pockets, no doubt, Being turned inside out, That his mouchoir and gloves may be put "up the spout,"

(For of coin, you may well conceive, all she can do
Fails to ferret out even a single écu ;)

As a muscular Giant would handle an elf,
The virago at last lifts the soldier himself,
And, like a She-Samson, at length lays him down
In a hospital form'd in the neighbouring town!

I am not very sure, But I think 'twas Namur;
And there she now leaves him, expecting a cure.

CANTO II.

I abominate physic-I care not who knows

That there's nothing on earth I detest like "a dose,"-
That yellowish-green-looking fluid, whose hue
I consider extremely unpleasant to view,

With its sickly appearance, that trenches so near
On what Homer defines the complexion of Fear;
Χλωοον δεος, I mean, A nasty pale green,

Though for want of some word that may better avail,
I presume, our translators have rendered it "pale;"

For consider the cheeks Of those "well-booted
Greeks,"

Their Egyptian descent was a question of weeks;
Their complexion, of course, like a half-decayed leek's;
And you'll see in an instant the thing that I mean

in it,

A Greek face in a funk had a good deal of green in it.
I repeat, I abominate physic; but then,
If folks will go campaigning about with such men
As the Great Prince de Condé and Marshal Turenne,

They may fairly expect To be now and then

check'd

By a bullet, or sabre-cut. Then their best solace is
Found, I admit, in green potions and boluses;

So, of course, I don't blame St. Foix wounded
and lame,

If he swallowed a decent quant. suff. of the same ; Though I'm told, in such cases, it's not the French

plan

To pour in their drastics as fast as they can,
The practice of many an English Savan,

But to let off a man With a little ptisanne, And gently to chafe the patella (knee-pan). "Oh, woman!" Sir Walter observes, "when the brow 's wrung with pain, what a minist'ring Angel art thou!"

Thou'rt a "minist'ring Angel" in no less degree,
I can boldly assert, when the pain's in the knee:

And medical friction Is, past contradiction,
Much better performed by a She than a He.
A fact which, indeed, comes within my own knowledge,
For I well recollect, when a youngster at College,

And, therefore, can quote A surgeon of note, Mr. Grosvenor of Oxford, who not only wrote On the subject a very fine treatise, but, still as his Patients came in, certain soft-handed Phyllises Were at once set to work on their legs, arms, and backs, And rubbed out their complaints in a couple of cracks. Now, they say, To this day,

When sick people can't pay

On the Continent, many of this kind of nurses
Attend, without any demand on their purses;
And these females, some old, others still in their teens,
Some call "Sisters of Charity," others "Beguines."
They don't take the vows; but, half-Nun and half-Lay,
Attend you: and when you've got better, they say,
"You're exceedingly welcome! There's nothing to pay.

Our task is now done; You are able to run.
We never take money; we cure you for fun!"
Then they drop you a court'sy, and wish you good

day,

And go off to cure somebody else the same way.
-A great many of these, at the date of my tale,
In Namur walk'd the hospitals, workhouse, and jail.

Among them was one, A most sweet Demi-nun, Her cheek pensive and pale; tresses bright as the Sun, Not carroty-no; though you'd fancy you saw burn Such locks as the Greeks lov'd, which moderns call

auburn.

These were partially seen through the veil which they wore all,

Her teeth were of pearl, and her lips were of coral;
Her eye-lashes silken; her eyes, fine large blue ones,
Were sapphires (I don't call these similes new ones;
But, in metaphors, freely confess I've a leaning
To such, new or old, as convey best one's meaning).-
Then, for figure? In faith it was downright barbarity

To muffle a form Might an anchorite warm
In the fusty stuff gown of a Sœur de la Charité;
And no poet could fancy, no painter could draw
One more perfect in all points, more free from a flaw,
Than her's who now sits by the couch of St. Foix,

Chafing there, With such care,

And so dove-like an air,

His leg, till her delicate fingers are charr'd
With the Steer's opodeldoc, joint-oil, and goulard ;
-Their Dutch appellations are really too hard
To be brought into verse by a transmarine Bard.-

Now you'll see, And agree,

I am certain, with me,

When a young man's laid up with a wound in his knee; And a lady sits there, On a rush-bottom'd chair, To hand him the mixtures his doctors prepare, And a bit of lump-sugar to make matters square; Above all, when the Lady's remarkably fair, And the wounded young man is a gay Mousquetaire, It's a ticklish affair, you may swear, for the pair, And may lead on to mischief before they're aware.

I really don't think, spite of what friends would call his "Penchant for liaisons," and graver men "follies," (For my own part, I think planting thorns on their

pillows,

And leaving poor maidens to weep and wear willows,
Is not to be classed among mere peccadillos,)

His "faults," I should say-I don't think François

Xavier

Entertain'd any thoughts of improper behaviour
Tow'rds his nurse, or that once to induce her to sin he

meant

While superintending his draughts and his liniment.
But, as he grew stout, And was getting about,
Thoughts came into his head that had better been out;
While Cupid's an urchin. We know deserves
birching,

He's so prone to delude folks, and leave them the

lurch in.

'Twas doubtless his doing That absolute ruin Was the end of all poor dear Therese's shampooing.