Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 17.djvu/320

314 D. Sir, I speak of your distemper; what gave you this tumour?

D. Cato, Cato, Cato.

O W. For God's sake, doctor, name not this evil spirit; 'tis the whole cause of his madness: alas, poor master's just falling into his fits!

Mr. L. Fits! Z—— what fits? A man may well have swellings in his legs, that sits writing fourteen hours in a day. He got this by the Remarks.

D. The Remarks! what are those?

D. 'Sdeath! have you never read my Remarks? I will be damned, if this dog Lintot ever published my advertisements.

Mr. L. Z——! I published advertisement upon advertisement; and if the book be not read, it is none of my fault, but his that made it. By G—, as much has been done for the book, as could be done for any book in Christendom.

D. We do not talk of books, sir; I fear those are the fuel, that feed his delirium; mention them no more. You do very ill to promote this discourse.

I desire a word in private with this other gentleman, who seems a grave and sensible man: I suppose, sir, you are his apothecary.

Gent. Sir, I am his friend.

D. I doubt it not. What regimen have you observed, since he has been under your care? You remember, I suppose, the passage of Celsus, which says, if the patient on the third day have an interval, suspend the medicaments at night? Let fumigations be