An Epigram on a Petit-Maitre Physician
When Pennington for female ills indites,
Studying alone not what, but how he writes,
The ladies, as his graceful form they scan,
Cry, with ill-omen’d rapture, “killing man!”
But Sir Isaac, too, was a wit, and chanced on a time to be one of a Cambridge party, amongst whom was a rich old fellow, an invalid, who was too mean to buy an opinion on his case, and thought it a good opportunity to worm one out of Sir Isaac gratis. He accordingly seized the opportunity for reciting the whole catalogue of his ills, ending with, “what would you advise me to take, my dear Sir Isaac?” “I should recommend you to take advice,” was the reply.