A Journey to Hell or, A Visit paid to the Devil. A poem. The Second Edition [by Edward Ward] |
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 | A Journey to Hell |  |
This Scourge made all the Crabs-Eye Crew run mad,
Who answer'd 'em in Language full as bad,
They hum'd and buz'd about like angry Bees,
And look'd as poys'nous as Cantharides,
Vex'd at the two-edg'd Sayings of the Bard,
Thus they began, spoke loud, and wou'd be heard:
Cast on your selves but an impartial Eye,
Look round your ill-compos'd Society,
And you as empty Dunces there may find,
Quite deaf to Learning, and to Reason blind,
As e'er swept Shop, or did a Counter wipe,
Or ty'd a Bladder to a Clyster-Pipe:
Some Hogan Mogan Quacks, first Taylors bred,
And from the Shop-board were Physicians made,
By old Receits of others, not their own,
Grow famous Curers of the Gout or Stone:
Why may not we Prescribe as well as these,
Who ne'er read Galen or Hippocrates,
Or any part of Physick's System know,
Beyond what our Dispensatories show.
Others of Oxford may, or Cambridge boast,
Who had a Twelve-month's standing there at most,
Where what he learn'd at School he not improv'd, but lost,
Whose wand'ring Thoughts no Study could entice,
But is expell'd for Negligence or Vice.
And thus the Rake fall'n short of a Degree,
Chaplain or Curate he despairs to be,
At last Physician turns thro' meer Necessitie.
When thus resolv'd, he does to Holland go,
Where Quacks and Mountebanks like Mushromes grow,
Spring up as fast; a Recipe's their rise,
And thus they're made Physicians in a trice.
But he more learn'd in School-Boy Rules repairs
To Leyden, where he's taught to stand the Bears,
There spends Six Months, and at a small expence,
Does two or three Degrees at once Commence:
Then Home he comes, and does admittance gain,
Amongst the grave old Bards in Warwick-Lane;
Adorns his Copy'd Prescripts well as they,
With the learn'd Capitals, M. F. S. A.
A Pill made publick is his main support,
Which he takes care does neither good nor hurt,
Fam'd for som wond'rous Cure at som strang Prince's Court;
He's always hasty, trots a Coach-Horse pace,
And bears the Title (Doctor) with a Grace:
Furnish'd with Terms, he can the Patient pose,
And runs at all, tho' nothing truly knows;
Undertakes desp'rate Cures for weighty Summs,
Coz'ning the Patient wheresoe'er he comes;
Why may not we, to make up Med'cines bred,
The same Admin'ster, and as well succeed
As this unskilful interloping Crew,
Ign'rant of Physick, nay, and Med'cine too.
The Learn'd but make of both a common Jest,
A Leyden Quack, and Salamanca Priest:
Therefore—
Who answer'd 'em in Language full as bad,
They hum'd and buz'd about like angry Bees,
And look'd as poys'nous as Cantharides,
Vex'd at the two-edg'd Sayings of the Bard,
Thus they began, spoke loud, and wou'd be heard:
Cast on your selves but an impartial Eye,
Look round your ill-compos'd Society,
And you as empty Dunces there may find,
Quite deaf to Learning, and to Reason blind,
7
Or ty'd a Bladder to a Clyster-Pipe:
Some Hogan Mogan Quacks, first Taylors bred,
And from the Shop-board were Physicians made,
By old Receits of others, not their own,
Grow famous Curers of the Gout or Stone:
Why may not we Prescribe as well as these,
Who ne'er read Galen or Hippocrates,
Or any part of Physick's System know,
Beyond what our Dispensatories show.
Others of Oxford may, or Cambridge boast,
Who had a Twelve-month's standing there at most,
Where what he learn'd at School he not improv'd, but lost,
Whose wand'ring Thoughts no Study could entice,
But is expell'd for Negligence or Vice.
And thus the Rake fall'n short of a Degree,
Chaplain or Curate he despairs to be,
At last Physician turns thro' meer Necessitie.
When thus resolv'd, he does to Holland go,
Where Quacks and Mountebanks like Mushromes grow,
Spring up as fast; a Recipe's their rise,
And thus they're made Physicians in a trice.
But he more learn'd in School-Boy Rules repairs
To Leyden, where he's taught to stand the Bears,
There spends Six Months, and at a small expence,
Does two or three Degrees at once Commence:
Then Home he comes, and does admittance gain,
Amongst the grave old Bards in Warwick-Lane;
Adorns his Copy'd Prescripts well as they,
With the learn'd Capitals, M. F. S. A.
8
Which he takes care does neither good nor hurt,
Fam'd for som wond'rous Cure at som strang Prince's Court;
He's always hasty, trots a Coach-Horse pace,
And bears the Title (Doctor) with a Grace:
Furnish'd with Terms, he can the Patient pose,
And runs at all, tho' nothing truly knows;
Undertakes desp'rate Cures for weighty Summs,
Coz'ning the Patient wheresoe'er he comes;
Why may not we, to make up Med'cines bred,
The same Admin'ster, and as well succeed
As this unskilful interloping Crew,
Ign'rant of Physick, nay, and Med'cine too.
The Learn'd but make of both a common Jest,
A Leyden Quack, and Salamanca Priest:
Therefore—
| A Journey to Hell | |