Sir, says
I, pray be advis'd by a friend, and make the best of your speed
out of my doors, for I hear my wife's voice, (which by the by, is
pretty distinguishable) and in that corner of the room stands a
good cudgel, which somebody has felt e're now; if that light in
her hands, and she know the business you come about, without
consulting the stars, I can assure you it will be employed very
much to the detriment of your person. Sir, cries he, bowing with
great civility, I perceive extreme grief for the loss of the
Doctor disorders you a little at present, but early in the
morning I'll wait on you with all necessary materials. Now I
mention no Mr. Bickerstaff, nor do I say, that a certain
star-gazing 'squire has been playing my executor before his time;
but I leave the world to judge, and if he puts things and things
fairly together, it won't be much wide of the mark.
Well, once more I got my doors clos'd, and prepar'd for bed, in
hopes of a little repose after so many ruffling adventures; just
as I was putting out my light in order to it, another bounces as
hard as he can knock; I open the window, and ask who's there, and
what he wants? I am Ned the sexton, replies he, and come to know
whether the Doctor left any orders for a funeral sermon, and
where he is to be laid, and whether his grave is to be plain or
bricked? Why, sirrah, says I, you know me well enough; you know I
am not dead, and how dare you affront me in this manner?
Alack-a-day, replies the fellow, why 'tis in print, and the whole
town knows you are dead; why, there's Mr.
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