He was a hard-headed Yorkshireman, noted for his shrewdness over business affairs. One day his wife was taken seriously ill and he called in a doctor. After the latter had made his examination, the Yorkshireman asked if the illness was likely to be a long one.
"Yes, I'm afraid it's very serious," said the doctor, who had not quite understood, "Then I'll give you five pounds, kill or cure," said the patient's husband, "and no more will you get from me. Will you agree to that?"
The doctor agreed, after thinking it over for a moment. Unfortunately, the patient died, and the doctor duly sent in his bill for five pounds.
The Yorkshireman refused to pay. "Well, it was your own arrangement, said the doctor when he met him, "and you'll pay or go to court."
"All right," said the bereaved man, "go to court and prove that you've earned it by either curing her or killing her, and I'll pay—but you did not cure her."
Reply to "M. S,"
Ports who think they are right In the art of poetry Usually themselves will write So that all the world will see In its connoisseur's eyes They are poets of renown, And not others criticize In attempts to bring them down.
Is your metre not iambic?
Or would you say it's trochaic, Anapestic or dactylic, Amphibrach, spondee or pyrrhic? And are not your rhymes that follow Thus: a, a, b, c, c, b?
Though your meaning's somewhat hollow When you would write poetry.
We have a poetic licence, Verse called hypermetrical, And verse catalectic, hence We can be poetical; And still be enough politic That our words are also worth, But there always is a critic If two men be on the earth!
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.