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 The doctor, an august authority, With eminence abroad as well as here, Looked hard at me as if I were the doctor And he the friend. "I have had eyes on Avon For more than half a year," he said to me, "And I have wondered often what it was That I could see that I was not to see. Though he was in the chair where you are looking, I told his wife—I had to tell her something— It was a nightmare and an aneurism; And so, or partly so, I'll say it was. The last without the first will be enough For the newspapers and the undertaker; Yet if we doctors were not all immune From death, disease, and curiosity, My diagnosis would be sorry for me. He died, you know, because he was afraid—