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 |  |
These were the Enemies to Humane Good,
Who did the languishing Diseas'd delude,
With gilded Poysons to abuse their Blood;
And did to the mistaking World pretend
Man's Life from Fate, pro Tempore, to defend.
Instead of which, to one their Art could save,
They hasten'd Legions headlong to the Grave;
And by their Pills, so speedy, safe, and sure,
Begot more Evils than their Art could Cure.
Some Fools and Tumblers, some Mechanicks bred,
Who quitted Needle, Last, or some such Trade,
To barb'rously encrease the numbers of the Dead.
When lustful Brutes were weary of their Wives,
And wanted younger Flesh to bless their Lives.
These were the Artists who by Med'cines force,
Gave, on good Terms, a Physical Divorce,
And often help'd, at reasonable Rates,
Impatient Heirs much sooner to Estates,
Well knowing whensoe'er they exert their Skill,
The rich old Dad, or homely Spouse to kill,
The Son or Husband ne'er disputes the Doctor's Bill.
If to a Patient call'd, to them unknown,
When first into the House or Room they're shown,
The mercenary Quack looks round to see
What signs of Want, or of Prosperity
Appear about the Chamber, and from thence
Does his Advice accordingly dispence:
If meanly Furnish'd, and course Sheets, they're Poor,
The Country Air must then perform the Cure;
But if the Patient's Rich, Lie still, dear Sir,
Nurse keep him close, 'tis present Death to stir,
I'll send a Drink shall rectifie his Blood,
Drenches and Drops can only do him good,
Pearl-Cordials, made of Crabs-Eyes, must be now his Food.
Thus is the Wretch with Physick stuff'd and cloy'd,
And what he begs for most, is most deny'd,
Till pin'd away at last to Skin and Bone,
Only for want of Food to live upon:
But when giv'n o'er, if Nature be but strong,
The Cook oft proves the Doctor in the wrong,
And does his Life with Kitchin Physick save,
Brought by base Emp'ricks once so near the Grave.
Who did the languishing Diseas'd delude,
With gilded Poysons to abuse their Blood;
And did to the mistaking World pretend
Man's Life from Fate, pro Tempore, to defend.
Instead of which, to one their Art could save,
They hasten'd Legions headlong to the Grave;
And by their Pills, so speedy, safe, and sure,
Begot more Evils than their Art could Cure.
Some Fools and Tumblers, some Mechanicks bred,
Who quitted Needle, Last, or some such Trade,
To barb'rously encrease the numbers of the Dead.
When lustful Brutes were weary of their Wives,
And wanted younger Flesh to bless their Lives.
These were the Artists who by Med'cines force,
Gave, on good Terms, a Physical Divorce,
And often help'd, at reasonable Rates,
Impatient Heirs much sooner to Estates,
Well knowing whensoe'er they exert their Skill,
The rich old Dad, or homely Spouse to kill,
The Son or Husband ne'er disputes the Doctor's Bill.
If to a Patient call'd, to them unknown,
When first into the House or Room they're shown,
The mercenary Quack looks round to see
What signs of Want, or of Prosperity
Appear about the Chamber, and from thence
Does his Advice accordingly dispence:
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The Country Air must then perform the Cure;
But if the Patient's Rich, Lie still, dear Sir,
Nurse keep him close, 'tis present Death to stir,
I'll send a Drink shall rectifie his Blood,
Drenches and Drops can only do him good,
Pearl-Cordials, made of Crabs-Eyes, must be now his Food.
Thus is the Wretch with Physick stuff'd and cloy'd,
And what he begs for most, is most deny'd,
Till pin'd away at last to Skin and Bone,
Only for want of Food to live upon:
But when giv'n o'er, if Nature be but strong,
The Cook oft proves the Doctor in the wrong,
And does his Life with Kitchin Physick save,
Brought by base Emp'ricks once so near the Grave.
| A Journey to Hell | |