Miller. Ay, now I am convinced you are a courtier; here is a little bribe for to-day, and a large promise for to-morrow, both in a breath. Here, take it again; John Cockle is no courtier. He can do what he ought, without a bribe.

King. Thou art a very extraordinary man, I must confess, and I should be glad, methinks, to be further acquainted

with thee.

I

Miller. I pray thee, don't thee and thou me, at this rate. suppose I am as good a man as yourself, at least.

King. Sir, I beg pardon.

Miller. Nay, I am not angry, friend; only I don't love to be too familiar with you, until I am satisfied as to your honesty.

King. You are right. But what am I to do?

Miller. You may do what you please. You are twelve miles from Nottingham, and all the way through this thick wood; but, if you are resolved upon going thither to-night, I will put you in the road and direct you the best I can; or, if you will accept of such poor entertainment as a miller can give, you shall be welcome to stay all night, and in the morning I will go with you myself.

King. And can not you go with me to-night?

Miller. I would not go with you to-night, if you were the king himself.

King. Then I must go with you, I think.

(Enter a courtier in haste.) Courtier. Ah! is your majesty safe? We have hunted the forest over to find you.

Miller. How! Are you the king? (Kneels.) Your Majesty will pardon the ill-usage you have received. (The king draws his sword.) His Majesty surely will not kill a servant for doing his duty too faithfully!

King. No, my good fellow. So far from having any thing

to pardon, I am much your debtor. I can not think bui so good and honest a man will make a worthy and honorable knight. Rise, Sir John Cockle, and receive this sword as a badge of knighthood, and a pledge of my protection; and to support your nobility, and in some measure requite you for the pleasure you have done us, a thousand crowns a year shall your revenue!

be

THE SICK IN HIS OWN DESPITE.

Volatile. Your humble servant, sir; walk in, sir; sit down, sir. (Bringing a chair.) My master will wait on you in a moment, sir; he's busy dispatching some patients, sir. I'll tell him you are here, sir. Be back in a twinkling, sir. Sinclair. No, no. I only wish to inquire,

Volatile. Right, sir; you could not have applied to a more able physician. My master understands physic as fundamentally as I do my mother tongue, sir.

Sinclair. He appears to have an able advocate in you.

Volatile. I do not say this, sir, because he is my master; but 't is really a pleasure to be his patient, and I would rather die by his medicines, than be cured by those of any other; for, whatever happens, a man may be certain that he has been regularly treated; and should he die under the operation, his heirs would have nothing to reproach him for.

Sinclair. That's a mighty comfort to a dead man.

Volatile. To be sure, sir; who would not wish to die methodically? Besides, he's not one of those doctors who husband the disease of their patients. He loves to dispatch business; and if they are to die, he lends them a helping hand.

Sinclair. There's nothing like dispatch in business.

Volatile. That's true, sir. What is the use of so much

hemming and hawing, and beating round the bush? I like to know the long and short of a distemper at once.

Sinclair. Right, undoubtedly.

Volatile. Right! Why, there were three of my children, whose illness he did me the honor to take care of, who all died in less than four days, when, in another's hands, they would have languished as many months.

(Enter Doctor.)

Volatile. Sir, this gentleman is desirous of consulting,— Doctor. I perceive it, sir; he is a dying man.

eat well, sir?

Sinclair. Eat! yes, sir, perfectly well.

Do you

Doctor. Bad, very bad; the epigastric region must be shockingly disordered. How do you drink, sir?

Sinclair. Nobody drinks better, sir.

Doctor. So much the worse. The great appetition of frigid and humid, is an indication of the great heat and aridity within. Do you sleep soundly?

Sinclair. Yes, always.

Doctor. This indicates a dreadful torpidity of the system; and, sir, I pronounce you a dead man. After considering the diagnostic and prognostic symptoms, I pronounce you attacked, affected, possessed, and disordered by that species of mania termed hyp'ochondria.

Volatile. Undoubtedly, sir. My master never mistakes, sir. Doctor. But, for an incontestable diagnostic, you may perceive his distempered ratiocination, and other pathog-no-mon-ic symptoms of this disorder.

Volatile. What will you order him, sir?

Doctor. First, a thorough salivation.

Volatile. But should this have no effect?

Doctor. We shall then know the disease does not proceed from the humors.

Volatile. What shall we try next, sir? Doctor. Bleeding, ten or fifteen times, twice a day. Volatile. If he grows worse and worse, what then? Doctor. It will prove the disease is not in his blood. Volatile. What application would you then recommend? Doctor. My infallible sudorific. Sweat him off five pounds a day, and his case can not long remain doubtful. This, you know, is my regular course, and never fails to kill or cure.

Volatile. I congratulate the gentleman upon falling into your hands, sir. He must consider himself happy in having his senses disordered, that he may experience the efficacy and gentleness of the remedies you have proposed.

Sinclair. What does all this mean, gentlemen? I do not understand your gibberish and nonsense.

Doctor. Such injurious language is a diagnostic we wanted to confirm our opinion of his distemper.

Sinclair. Are you crazy, gentlemen? (Spits in his hand, and raises his cane.)

Doctor. Another diagnostic!-frequent sputation.

Sinclair. You had better be done, and make off.

Doctor. Another diagnostic!-anxiety to change place. We will fix you, sir. Your disease,

Sinclair. I have no disease, sir.

Doctor. A bad symptom when a patient is insensible of his illness.

Sinclair. I am well, sir, I assure you; and, having lost my way, only called to inquire after the most direct route to the city. Show it to me this instant, or, by Hippocrates! I'll break every bone in your skin!

Stranger. I have lost my way, good friend. Can you assist me in finding it?

O'Callaghan. Assist you in finding it, is't? Ay, by my faith and troth, and that I will, if it was to the world's end. Str. I wish to return, by the shortest route, to the Black Rock.

O'C. Indade, and you will, so plase your honor's honor,and O'Callaghan's own self will show you the way, and then you can't miss it, you know.

Str. I would not give you that trouble, Mr. O'Callaghan. O'C. It is never a trouble, so plase your honor, for an Irishman to do his duty. (Bowing.)

Str. Whither do you travel, friend?

O'C. To Dublin, so plase your honor.-Sure, all the world knows that Judy O'Flannaghan will be married to-morrow, God willing, to Pat Ryan; and Pat, you know, is my own foster-brother, because why ?—we had but one nurse betwane us, and that was my own mother; but she died one day,—the Lord rest her swate soul!—and left me an orphan; for my father married again, and his new wife was the divil's own child, and did nothing but bate me from morning till night.

Str. But what reason could she have for treating you so unmercifully?

O' C. Ah, your honor, and sure enough, there are always rasons as plenty as potatoes for being hard-hearted; so I hopped the twig, and parted old Nick's darling. Och! may the divil find her wherever she goes! But here I am, alive and lapeing, and going to see Pat married;—and faith, to do him justice, he's an honest lad as any within ten miles of us, and no disparagement neither.

Str. Your miles in Ireland are longer than ours?

O'C. Indade, and you may belave that, your honor,because why?-St. Patrick measured them in his coach, you know.

Str. Pray, how does the bride appear?

O'C. Och! by my soul, your honor, she's a nate article; and then she will be rigged out as gay as a lark, and as fine