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 This could not escape the Attorney's Notice, any more than the Cause of it did escape his Penetration.

I think, Sir, says he, (dropping his Voice a Third) you might well have spared this immoderate Mirth, since you and your Profession have the least Reason to tri­umph here of any of us.—I beg, quoth he, that you would reflect a Moment up­on the Cob-Web which Trim went so far for, and brought back with an Air of so much Importance, in his Breeches Pocket, to lay upon the Parson's cut Finger.—This said Cob-Web, Sir, is a fine-spun Satyre, upon the flimsy Nature of one Half of the Shop Medicines, with which you make a Property of the Sick, the Ig­norant, and the Unsuspecting.—And as for the Moral of the Close-Stool-Pan, Sir, 'tis too plain,—Does not nine Parts in ten of the whole Practice, and of all you vend under its Colours, pass into and con­center in that one nasty Utensil?—And let me tell you, Sir, says he, raising his Voice,—had not your unseasonable Mirth blinded you, you might have seen that Trim's carrying the Close-Stool-Pan upon his Head the whole Length of the Town, Rh