State Tracts Containing Many Necessary Observations and Reflections on the State of our Affairs at Home and Abroad; With some Secret Memoirs. By the Author of the Examiner [i.e. William Oldisworth] |
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 | State Tracts |  |
111
Doctor HANNES Dissected IN A Familiar Epistle by way of Nosce Teipsum.
September 10. 1710.
A learned Wight, some say of late
That always lov'd to serve the Great,
Met a Disease out-match'd his Skill,
And some pretend to say so still,
Tho' learnedly he's told the Mob,
The Lungs were tainted ev'ry Lobe,
And how th'Abdomen was affected
So nicely well it was dissected
As who shou'd say that Dr. Hannes
If any one wou'd take the Pains
Wanted either Guts or Brains.
I know not what the Vulgar think
Or how some Men at Noon-day Wink,
But thus it is, may't please you all,
To raise a P---p a Prince must fall.
That always lov'd to serve the Great,
Met a Disease out-match'd his Skill,
And some pretend to say so still,
Tho' learnedly he's told the Mob,
The Lungs were tainted ev'ry Lobe,
And how th'Abdomen was affected
So nicely well it was dissected
As who shou'd say that Dr. Hannes
If any one wou'd take the Pains
Wanted either Guts or Brains.
112
Or how some Men at Noon-day Wink,
But thus it is, may't please you all,
To raise a P---p a Prince must fall.
Thus when grave Sages are neglected,
And beardless Boys so much respected,
When Oracles, that wont of old,
Mighty Mysteries to unfold,
Are like Stories still untold:
When solid Truth and solid Gold,
Are for Noise and gingle Sold;
Then Notion may for knowledge Pass,
And Æsculapius for an Ass.
Thisles and Logick chop together
As Baro—men do Wind and Weather,
Both hit alike, and both prove good
One for the Mind, the other Food.
Had not Men's Wits Eclipsed been,
'Tis Ten to One we had Foreseen,
And then we'd wanted no Dissections,
No Consultations, no Inspections,
Nor any need of these Reflections;
But when Mens Eyes are grown so bad,
They cannot see what once they had,
'Tis time to let 'em feel the Smart,
And clear their Eyes by Rules of Art,
When that falls short, 'tis some Content
Tho' th'Mark was miss'd it was well Meant.
And thus poor Mortals seek for Ease,
When the Physician's the Disease,
As learned Heathens use to tell
Where such Men live does Sorrow dwell,
But sure a Nation must be Blind,
Or else they wear their Eyes behind,
That cannot tell a Man of Sence,
From one that's all Impertinence.
All Guts and Meseraick Veins;
Lungs, Liver, Spleen and rotten Reins,
But little Head, and much less Brains.
Joynts stiff, Inflexible as Stones,
No Juice or Marrow in his Bones,
Nor flesh nor Fat is to be seen,
But Muscles shrivel'd dry and lean.
This is the wondrous piece of Nature,
That picks the Bones of every Creature;
And yet you'd Swear to look upon him,
He knows no more than what comes from him.
But how so great a Man of Art,
Should let a Royal Heir depart,
And never tell the reason why,
He shou'd not Live, or he shou'd Dye.
Tho' some time after as they say,
He cou'd have told a certain Way,
How to have got the Poison out,
That lurk'd in th'Heart or there about.
But then his Thoughts were so Perplext,
Just as a Priest that takes a Text,
And has forgot what he design'd
When first the Text came in his Mind.
Ev'n so, our learn'd Apollo did,
Not thinking what Heaven had forbid.
But had the People thought on't then,
They might have been great Friends to Spain,
And sav'd them many a needless Shilling,
That they bestow'd on their King's Killing,
By sending for a Neapolitan,
When we have much a quicker Man,
And far more dextrous at the Parts,
At shewing livid Lungs or Hearts,
Or any Secret of that Nature,
For this is but the smallest Matter,
He can of few Years Practice shew,
How he has serv'd a Thousand so.
And wou'd you wonder at his Skill,
Whose Business 'tis he proves to Kill;
Spaniards, dull Souls, preserv'd their King,
By Chocolet, or some such thing:
When Hanns has Arts, as yet unknown,
Where 'tis but Presto—and they'er gone.
I wonder any one then dare,
With this Philosopher compare,
Gibbons and Ratclife, he'd prove Fools,
If laid in's Anatomick Schools.
He'd so dissect both their Abdomens
You'd swear they were but nasty Omens.
Then tell you 'tis but common Matter,
Such as is found in every Creature,
As Wise in Brutes as human Nature.
For my part, I believe it true,
Since Hanns, I see no more in you.
And beardless Boys so much respected,
When Oracles, that wont of old,
Mighty Mysteries to unfold,
Are like Stories still untold:
When solid Truth and solid Gold,
Are for Noise and gingle Sold;
Then Notion may for knowledge Pass,
And Æsculapius for an Ass.
Thisles and Logick chop together
As Baro—men do Wind and Weather,
Both hit alike, and both prove good
One for the Mind, the other Food.
Had not Men's Wits Eclipsed been,
'Tis Ten to One we had Foreseen,
And then we'd wanted no Dissections,
No Consultations, no Inspections,
Nor any need of these Reflections;
113
They cannot see what once they had,
'Tis time to let 'em feel the Smart,
And clear their Eyes by Rules of Art,
When that falls short, 'tis some Content
Tho' th'Mark was miss'd it was well Meant.
And thus poor Mortals seek for Ease,
When the Physician's the Disease,
As learned Heathens use to tell
Where such Men live does Sorrow dwell,
But sure a Nation must be Blind,
Or else they wear their Eyes behind,
That cannot tell a Man of Sence,
From one that's all Impertinence.
All Guts and Meseraick Veins;
Lungs, Liver, Spleen and rotten Reins,
But little Head, and much less Brains.
Joynts stiff, Inflexible as Stones,
No Juice or Marrow in his Bones,
Nor flesh nor Fat is to be seen,
But Muscles shrivel'd dry and lean.
This is the wondrous piece of Nature,
That picks the Bones of every Creature;
114
He knows no more than what comes from him.
But how so great a Man of Art,
Should let a Royal Heir depart,
And never tell the reason why,
He shou'd not Live, or he shou'd Dye.
Tho' some time after as they say,
He cou'd have told a certain Way,
How to have got the Poison out,
That lurk'd in th'Heart or there about.
But then his Thoughts were so Perplext,
Just as a Priest that takes a Text,
And has forgot what he design'd
When first the Text came in his Mind.
Ev'n so, our learn'd Apollo did,
Not thinking what Heaven had forbid.
But had the People thought on't then,
They might have been great Friends to Spain,
And sav'd them many a needless Shilling,
That they bestow'd on their King's Killing,
By sending for a Neapolitan,
When we have much a quicker Man,
115
At shewing livid Lungs or Hearts,
Or any Secret of that Nature,
For this is but the smallest Matter,
He can of few Years Practice shew,
How he has serv'd a Thousand so.
And wou'd you wonder at his Skill,
Whose Business 'tis he proves to Kill;
Spaniards, dull Souls, preserv'd their King,
By Chocolet, or some such thing:
When Hanns has Arts, as yet unknown,
Where 'tis but Presto—and they'er gone.
I wonder any one then dare,
With this Philosopher compare,
Gibbons and Ratclife, he'd prove Fools,
If laid in's Anatomick Schools.
He'd so dissect both their Abdomens
You'd swear they were but nasty Omens.
Then tell you 'tis but common Matter,
Such as is found in every Creature,
As Wise in Brutes as human Nature.
For my part, I believe it true,
Since Hanns, I see no more in you.
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