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42
DEATH TO DOCTOR QUACKERY.
HEALTH! and for ever! e'en the Grave
May well for Thee let Nature wave
The sternest of her laws:
And Death may wish immortal life
To One that plies the lance and knife
So boldly in his cause.
May well for Thee let Nature wave
The sternest of her laws:
And Death may wish immortal life
To One that plies the lance and knife
So boldly in his cause.
I pledge Thee in thine own good wine;
Nor Rhone nor Rhine, nor Douro's Vine
The juice inspiring gave,
But, thanks to thy empiric pains,
The rich, the ripe, the ruddy veins
Of Man, our dupe and slave.
Nor Rhone nor Rhine, nor Douro's Vine
The juice inspiring gave,
But, thanks to thy empiric pains,
The rich, the ripe, the ruddy veins
Of Man, our dupe and slave.
At Thee thy Brother of the School,
Who learns to baffle me by rule,
The sapient shoulder shrugs:
Curse on the Pedant and his Art!
Would thou couldst bleed him at the heart,
Or gorge him with thy drugs.
Who learns to baffle me by rule,
The sapient shoulder shrugs:
Curse on the Pedant and his Art!
Would thou couldst bleed him at the heart,
Or gorge him with thy drugs.
Or would thou couldst for him distil
Some special drop: thy chemic skill
His learned pride might quell:
No crone that ever mutter'd charm,
Or groped the ditch for things of harm,
Could poison half so well.
Some special drop: thy chemic skill
His learned pride might quell:
No crone that ever mutter'd charm,
Or groped the ditch for things of harm,
Could poison half so well.
E'en Nature's wholesome herbs and sweets
(So well brave Ignorance defeats
The general Mother's will)
To bane in thy Alembic turn,
And steam to mischiefs that will burn,
And venom that will kill.
(So well brave Ignorance defeats
The general Mother's will)
To bane in thy Alembic turn,
And steam to mischiefs that will burn,
And venom that will kill.
I pledge thee to the goblet's brim,
For every victim's mangled limb,
For every fix'd disease,
For every wasted artery,
And every kind of bartery
Of bad advice for fees!
For every victim's mangled limb,
For every fix'd disease,
For every wasted artery,
And every kind of bartery
Of bad advice for fees!
Hark! some one rattles at thy gate,
'Tis a sick Miser's Heir, whom Fate
Long hinders of his revel;
He'll lead thee to his kinsman's couch:
Farewell! I speed away to vouch
The tidings to the Devil.
'Tis a sick Miser's Heir, whom Fate
Long hinders of his revel;
He'll lead thee to his kinsman's couch:
Farewell! I speed away to vouch
The tidings to the Devil.
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