Published 2<sup>nd</sup> Dec. 1799, by LAURIE & WHITTLE, N.53 Fleet Street, London.

THE SWEATING SICKNESS;
OR, THE IMAGINARY MALADY.

(A BONA FIDE FACT.)

TOM Ruby was a merry wag
As any in the town,
And he full fifteen years had worn
And grac'd the civic gown.

To carve a pig, or hare, or haunch,
Whatever was the work,
At table all gave up to Tom,
For handling knife and fork.

The summer's sultry heat now drives
Each Cit to his retreat;
To Margaree fome retire to bathe,
To High'ry fome to eat.

The Club were at the *Pidgeons met,
And Ruby in the chair
Propo'd a dining country jaunt
Next Sunday, if 'were fair.

But where the place ? for Highgate fome,
And fome for Hornley vote ;
But the majority agree
To fix it more remote.

Says Tom, I recollected a place,
And think we're all in lue k ;
What think you of the Forell, La's,
And † Church, at the Roe-Buck ?

And there we'll have a nice fug haunch,
Some ducks—a bit of fifth ;
With any other little thing,
By way of a fide diſ.

Leave me to cater, I'll provide
The thing that's neat and flaunder ;
For Selby ſhall fupply the fifth,
Mott, ducks—and Birch the haunch.

Agreed nem. con. and now bright Sol
Burils forth with ardent ray ;
Twas Sunday, and it ſoon became
A fwel'ring summer's day.

The Pidgeons was the rendezvous
Where they agreed to meet;
And there each member's ſeed ſo ſleek
Stood waiting in the tie, ſleek,

But firſt each travler, ere he mounts,
Demands th' accuutom'd lunch,
And waſhes down the fav'ry bit
With wine, or ale, or punch.

To horſe ! to horſe ! now mounted, each
Firm on his charger fat ;
All but Tom Ruby, who was gone
In queft of his loft hat.

Now ill betide the man who made
Hat-lining like a purſe,
And raiſ'd the crown; for 'twas to Tom
A temporary curſe !

He ſhouſt his hat both high and low,
And many a curſe did mutter,
At length 'twas found, and in the crown
Sly lid—a lump of butter !

Tom puts its ſon, then mounts, his ſpeed
To join his comrades flies,
And dafhes over Mile-end road,
While clouds of duſt arife.

By this time butter gan to melt,
And Tom began to wſea;
Bleſs me ! faſs he, how I perſpire !
I am quite wringing wet !

See here, my friends, look how it pours
Adown my face and noſe !
I never did wſea thus before—
It drenches all my clothes !

Why Tom (faſs one), you are unwell,
Your looks are pale and wan !
And my advice is, get to bed
As ſoon as 'er you can.

And you, my friends, take care of him,
While I pufh nimbly on,
To get a comfortable ſed
To lay our friend upon.

Now Tom, ſurrounded by hit friends,
Moves on with gentler pace,
While each man his opinion gives
Of this alarming cafe.

Says one—I do remember well
(I think it is in Stowe)
A cafe like this, a dreadful ſcourge,
Three hundred years ago.

The favouring Jickneſt it was call'd,
And if I read ariſt,
Whoever was track'd at morn
Was ſure to die that night!

Indeed! quoth Tom, then pray move on,
And let me get repofe ;
I ſeel it now from head to foot—
I'm favouring at my toes !

Now all arrived at the Roe-buck,
Poor Tom is put to bed,
With fireſt orders that no noſe
May trouble his poor head.

Thus leaving him to his repofe,
They all adjourn to dine;
But filly from among his clothes,
His waſcoat they purloin :

Which given to the chamber-maid,
She trietly is enjoin'd
(And promis'd ſomething for her pains)
To take it in behind.

So faſd, ſo done, Sally begins,
Now turns the waſcoat o'er,
And gatring up the back, ſews up
Some five inches or more.

Then flealing foſtily to his room,
She hears him gently doſe,
And filly puts the waſcoat down
Among his other clothes.

Mean time the jolly lads below,
In ven'fon knuckle deep,
Pufh round the baunche, and wag their chir
Then drink “ Our friend alſeep !”

The dinner done, and cloth remov'd,
For drinking each prepares,
And now a member is diſpatch'd
To fee how Ruby ſares.

How ſares it, Tom ?—I'm better now,
My ſeaſt has left me quite,
Do move this pillow, lend your hand,
I'll firve to fit upright.

Strive to fit up ! you ſhall go down
And join our friends below;
Come, I'll help you dresſ you, here your clothes,
'Twill do you good, I know.

Now Tom, affiſted by his friend,
Puts on his clothes in haſe ;
But when his waſcoat he try'd on,
With fear he ſlond aghast !

Mercy upon us ! how I'm ſwell'd
I ne'er was ſo before !
My waſcoat will not meet in front
By five inches or more !

O Lor', I'm ſtruck with death I'm ſure !
I prefently ſhall built !
I'm in a ſever !—give me drink
To quench this raging thirt!

His friends with well-feign'd grief attend
His chamber round about,
And one fly rogue with penkife keen
Soon lets the waſcoat out.

Another way ſays—I ſuſpect
“ Tis wind within him pent,
That ſwells him thus ; I therefore move
He takes ſome nutriment.

Now try to dref yourſelf, friend Tom,
“ Tis wind that thus does teaze you;
Tom tries his waſcoat, and bawls out,
Zounds ! now it buttons eaf !

See how I'm fallen in the waſt !
Five inches round about !
And yet I marvel, as 'twas wind,
Which way it has got out !

Light gruel, and a thin dry toaf,
Is brought for Tom's repair,
As groſter food, (twas faſd) might hurt,
After a ten hours fail.

Now cautiously they lead him down,
Then mount him on his ſeed,
While he with ruelſt face declares
A strong desire to feed.

But food they all declare is bad
For his peculiar cafe ;
And now to w ſond back again
They jog with moderate pace.

And Ruby ſafe arrived at home,
Goes ſupperlees to bed,
There dreams all night of city treat,
With tables nobly ſpread.

An ample breakfast he takes down
Next morrow—two pounds at least;
But, curting the Roe-buck, declares
He'll not go there to feaſ.

SENNED.

* A well-known public-houſe.

† The Landlord.

John Rieſter, Printers, Little-Britain.