Which made it more surprising how
He should be sent for thither now. 
  The message told, he gapes, and stares,
And scarce believes his eyes or ears: 
Could not conceive what it should mean,
And fain would hear it told again. 
But then the squire so trim and nice,
’Twere rude to make him tell it twice;
So bow’d, was thankful for the honour;
And would not fail to wait upon her. 
His beaver brush’d, his shoes, and gown,
Away he trudges into town;
Passes the lower castle yard,
And now advancing to the guard,
He trembles at the thoughts of state;
For, conscious of his sheepish gait,
His spirits of a sudden fail’d him;
He stopp’d, and could not tell what ail’d him. 
  What was the message I received? 
Why certainly the captain raved? 
To dine with her! and come at three! 
Impossible! it can’t be me. 
Or maybe I mistook the word;
My lady—­it must be my lord. 
  My lord ’s abroad; my lady too: 
What must the unhappy doctor do? 
“Is Captain Cracherode[1] here, pray?”—­“No.” 
“Nay, then ’tis time for me to go.” 
Am I awake, or do I dream? 
I’m sure he call’d me by my name;
Named me as plain as he could speak;
And yet there must be some mistake. 
Why, what a jest should I have been,
Had now my lady been within! 
What could I’ve said?  I’m mighty glad
She went abroad—­she’d thought me mad. 
The hour of dining now is past: 
Well then, I’ll e’en go home and fast: 
And, since I ’scaped being made a scoff,
I think I’m very fairly off. 
My lady now returning home,
Calls “Cracherode, is the Doctor come?”
He had not heard of him—­“Pray see,
’Tis now a quarter after three.” 
The captain walks about, and searches
Through all the rooms, and courts, and arches;
Examines all the servants round,
In vain—­no doctor’s to be found. 
My lady could not choose but wonder;
“Captain, I fear you’ve made some blunder;
But, pray, to-morrow go at ten;
I’ll try his manners once again;
If rudeness be th’ effect of knowledge,
My son shall never see a college.” 
  The captain was a man of reading,
And much good sense, as well as breeding;
Who, loath to blame, or to incense,
Said little in his own defence. 
Next day another message brought;
The Doctor, frighten’d at his fault,
Is dress’d, and stealing through the crowd,
Now pale as death, then blush’d and bow’d,
Panting—­and faltering—­humm’d and ha’d,
“Her ladyship was gone abroad: 
The captain too—­he did not know
Whether he ought to stay or go;”
Begg’d she’d forgive him.  In conclusion,
My lady, pitying his confusion,
Call’d her good nature to relieve him;
Told him, she thought she might believe him;
And would not only grant his suit,
But visit him, and eat some fruit,
Provided, at a proper time,
He told the real truth in rhyme;
’Twas to no purpose to oppose,