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 warm'd the politician,
Cured yesterday of my disease,
I died last night of my physician.
Remedy Worse Than The Disease, A
Matthew Prior
(1)
Poem topics: night, warm, yesterday, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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