The Works of the Late Aaron Hill ... In Four Volumes. Consisting of Letters on Various Subjects, And of Original Poems, Moral and Facetious. With An Essay on the Art of Acting |
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To the Learned and Worshipful, the President, Censors, the Fellows, of the College of Physicians in London,
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 | The Works of the Late Aaron Hill |  |
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To the Learned and Worshipful, the President, Censors, the Fellows, of the College of Physicians in London,
The Humble Petition of Thomas Trade, of the said City, Wool-Stapler.
That, in rhyme, I petition, you must not complain,
For, I oft, have try'd reason, and found, 'twas in vain:
For, I oft, have try'd reason, and found, 'twas in vain:
The known sturdy beggar, who, now, craves your aid,
Was, once, a fam'd citizen—honest Tom Trade;
His father a clothier, his mother Creole,
Bid their Son—a blunt, English, impolitic, soul,
Always think what he pleas'd, and speak what he thought;
And (a fool for my pains!) I e'en did, as I ought.
Hence it came—and, no wonder, you Doctors will say,
That my fortune turn'd tail, and fell to decay:
How it happen'd, I know not; but, soon, from a Tun,
I was shrunk to a Noggin—and fairly undone!
From a fat, florid cheek, and an eye void of care,
With a freeholder's belly, and bluff British air,
I assum'd a lean, Spanish, lank, leathery, jaw,
And look'd dry, tall, and yellow, and light, like a straw:
Well! no matter, you'll say, for my air, or my face;
So, I hasten, to sigh out my sorrowful case.
Was, once, a fam'd citizen—honest Tom Trade;
His father a clothier, his mother Creole,
Bid their Son—a blunt, English, impolitic, soul,
Always think what he pleas'd, and speak what he thought;
And (a fool for my pains!) I e'en did, as I ought.
Hence it came—and, no wonder, you Doctors will say,
That my fortune turn'd tail, and fell to decay:
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I was shrunk to a Noggin—and fairly undone!
From a fat, florid cheek, and an eye void of care,
With a freeholder's belly, and bluff British air,
I assum'd a lean, Spanish, lank, leathery, jaw,
And look'd dry, tall, and yellow, and light, like a straw:
Well! no matter, you'll say, for my air, or my face;
So, I hasten, to sigh out my sorrowful case.
There's a shameless old quack, by name Dr Shift,
Who does very strange things, at a very dead lift;
'Twas to him, or to none, all agreed I must go,
If I meant any better, or bigger, to grow.
Who does very strange things, at a very dead lift;
'Twas to him, or to none, all agreed I must go,
If I meant any better, or bigger, to grow.
When I show'd him my bones, as they peep'd thro' my skin,
And complain'd, what a dryness consum'd me, within;
I must fleece thee, he cry'd, if thou wishest to live.
De'el a lock (answer'd I) have they left me to give.
Set your seal, then, to mortgage the hopes of your son,
And the cure be my care, so the bus'ness is done.
For, I ne'er cou'd ask fees, nor be seen any more,
If my patients, so peel'd, were as sick, as before.
And complain'd, what a dryness consum'd me, within;
I must fleece thee, he cry'd, if thou wishest to live.
De'el a lock (answer'd I) have they left me to give.
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And the cure be my care, so the bus'ness is done.
For, I ne'er cou'd ask fees, nor be seen any more,
If my patients, so peel'd, were as sick, as before.
With a trembling weak hand, I comply'd with his will,
While he laugh'd, in my face, at due sense of his Skill.
Don Mustacho, he cry'd—(and with arrogant mien,
Came his surgeon, at call) “Here's a patient, too lean;
“Take and purge him, one year; and then vomit him, two:
“All the third, let him blood—and, if that shou'd not do,
“Sweat him, six, nine, or twelve—and, at last, to work sure,
“Let a blister all over make short with his cure.”
Oons! a Doctor, said I!—and slunk back, in a fright,
Don, the Devil, and You, will demolish me quite!
Where's your conscience? D'you think such a poor dog, as I,
Can be tapp'd at all ends, and yet never run dry?
I'll complain to the college, and get 'em to trounce
A horse-doctor, whom all honest beasts wou'd renounce.
While he laugh'd, in my face, at due sense of his Skill.
Don Mustacho, he cry'd—(and with arrogant mien,
Came his surgeon, at call) “Here's a patient, too lean;
“Take and purge him, one year; and then vomit him, two:
“All the third, let him blood—and, if that shou'd not do,
“Sweat him, six, nine, or twelve—and, at last, to work sure,
“Let a blister all over make short with his cure.”
Oons! a Doctor, said I!—and slunk back, in a fright,
Don, the Devil, and You, will demolish me quite!
Where's your conscience? D'you think such a poor dog, as I,
Can be tapp'd at all ends, and yet never run dry?
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A horse-doctor, whom all honest beasts wou'd renounce.
Now, ye learned and grave! you, who think, for our health;
If a wretch deserves life, who has lost all his wealth,
Let me hope due revenge, on this foe, to men's breath,
Who wou'd cure a consumption, by bleeding to death.
If a wretch deserves life, who has lost all his wealth,
Let me hope due revenge, on this foe, to men's breath,
Who wou'd cure a consumption, by bleeding to death.
| The Works of the Late Aaron Hill | |