Doctor. Where are you hurt? Is it here? (touching his head)
Punch. No; lower.
Doctor. Here? (touching his breast)
Punch. No; lower, lower.
Doctor. Here, then? (going downwards)
Punch. No; lower still.
Doctor. Then, is your handsome leg broken?
Punch. No; higher.
Doctor. Oh, my eye! my eye! Exit.
Punch. (solus) Aye, you're right enough; it is my eye, and Betty Martin too.[1] (jumping up, and dancing and singing tune, "Malbroug."
The Doctor is surely an ass, sirs,
To think I'm as brittle as glass, sirs;
But I only fell down on the grass, sirs,
And my hurt—it is all my eye.
Punch. Hollo! hollo! Doctor—what game you up to now? Have done! What you got there?
Doctor. Physic, Mr. Punch; (hits him) physic for your hurt.
Punch. Me no like physic; it give me one headache.
Doctor. That's because you do not take enough of it. (hits him again) The more you take, the more good it will do you. (hits him)
- ↑ This joke is much more proper, in some respects, in Catholic Italy, than in Protestant England, where we have left off praying to Saints. The saying is, however, as is well known, derived from times prior to the Reformation, when Mihi, beate Martine was the commencement of an address to St. Martin: the use of it, as an expression of ridicule, implying incredulity, must, of course, have been posterior to that event, when disbelief in the efficacy of such addresses became general.
Wilding. His bulls you mean. Hazard. You're right,
And dedicate 'em to the gamesters,"&c.