The Incomparable Soporific Doctor Poem by James Thomson

Sweet, sleeky Doctor! dear pacific soul!
Lay at the beef, and suck the vital bowl!
Still let the involving smoke around thee fly,
And broad-looked dulness settle in thine eye.
Ah! soft in down these dainty limbs repose,
And in the very lap of slumber doze;
But chiefly on the lazy day of grace,
Call forth the lambent glories of thy face;
If aught the thoughts of dinner can prevail,
And sure the Sunday's dinner cannot fail,
To the thin church in sleepy pomp proceed,
And lean on the lethargic book thy head;
Those eyes wipe often with the hallowed lawn,
Profoundly nod, immeasurably yawn;
Slow let the prayers by thy meek lips be sung,
Nor let thy thoughts be distanced by thy tongue;
If e'er the lingerers are within a call,
Or if on prayers thou deign'st to think at all.
Yet - only yet - the swimming head we bend;
But when serene, the pulpit you ascend,
Through every joint a gentle horror creeps,
And round you the consenting audience sleeps.
So when an ass with sluggish front appears,
The horses start, and prick their quivering ears;
But soon as ere the sage is heard to bray,
The fields all thunder, and they bound away.