FULVIA.
WHY pines my Dear? To Fulvia, his young bride,
Who pensive sat, thus aged Cornus cry'd.
Alas! said she, such Visions break my Rest,
The strangest Thoughts! I think I am possest:
My Symptoms I have told a Man of Skill,
And—if I wou'd—he says—I might—be well.
Take his Advice, said he, my poor dear Wife,
I'll buy at any rate thy precious Life.
Blushing she wou'd excuse, but all in vain,
A Doctor must be fetch'd to ease her Pain.
Hard prest, she yields: From White's, or Will's, or Tom's,
No matter which he's summon'd, and he comes.
The careful Husband, with a kind Embrace
Entreats his Care; then bows, and quits the Place,
For little Ailments oft attend the Fair,
Not decent for a Husband's, or Ear.
Something the Dame would say: The ready Knight
Prevents her Speech—Here's that shall set you right,
Madam, said he—With that the Door's made close,
He gives, deliciously, the healing Dose.
Alas! she cries, Ah me! Ah cruel Cure!
Did ever Woman yet like me endure!
The Work perform'd: Uprising gay and light,
Old Cornus is call'd in, to see the Sight.
A sprightly Red vermillions all her Face,
And her Eyes languish with unusual Grace.
With Tears of Joy, fresh gushing from his Eyes,
O wond'rous Pow'r of Art! old Cornus cries,
Amazing Change! Astonishing Success!
Thrice happy I! What a brave Man was this!
Maids, Wives, and Widows, with like Whims possest,
May thus find certain Ease—Probatum est.