 | The poems of Dr. Yalden |  |
FABLE III. THE BLIND WOMAN AND HER DOCTORS.
A wealthy matron, now grown old,
Was weak in every part:
Afflicted sore with rheums and cold,
Yet pretty sound at heart.
Was weak in every part:
Afflicted sore with rheums and cold,
Yet pretty sound at heart.
But most her eyes began to fail,
Depriv'd of needful light:
Nor could her spectacles avail,
To rectify their sight.
Depriv'd of needful light:
Nor could her spectacles avail,
To rectify their sight.
Receipts she try'd, she doctors fee'd,
And spar'd for no advice
Of men of skill, or quacks for need
That practise on sore eyes.
And spar'd for no advice
Of men of skill, or quacks for need
That practise on sore eyes.
Salves they daub'd on, and plaisters both.
And this, and that was done:
Then flannels, and a forehead-cloth,
To bind and keep them on.
And this, and that was done:
Then flannels, and a forehead-cloth,
To bind and keep them on.
Her house, though small, was furnish'd neat,
And every room did shine
With pictures, tapestry, and plate,
All rich, and wondrous fine.
And every room did shine
With pictures, tapestry, and plate,
All rich, and wondrous fine.
Whilst they kept blind the silly soul,
Their hands found work enough!
They pilfer'd plate, and goods they stole,
Till all was carry'd off.
Their hands found work enough!
They pilfer'd plate, and goods they stole,
Till all was carry'd off.
When they undamm'd their patient's eyes,
And “now pray how's your sight?”
Cries t' other, “this was my advice,
I knew 't would set you right:”
And “now pray how's your sight?”
Cries t' other, “this was my advice,
I knew 't would set you right:”
Like a stuck pig the woman star'd,
And up and down she run:
With naked house and walls quite scar'd,
She found herself undone.
And up and down she run:
With naked house and walls quite scar'd,
She found herself undone.
“Doctors, quoth she, your cure's my pain,
For what are eyes to me:
Bring salves and forehead-cloths again,
I've nothing left to see.”
For what are eyes to me:
Bring salves and forehead-cloths again,
I've nothing left to see.”
THE MORAL.
See, injur'd Britain, thy unhappy case,
Thou patient with distemper'd eyes:
State-quacks but nourish the disease,
And thrive by treacherous advice.
Thou patient with distemper'd eyes:
State-quacks but nourish the disease,
And thrive by treacherous advice.
If fond of the expensive pain,
When eighteen millions run on score:
Let them clap mufflers on again,
And physic thee of eighteen more.
When eighteen millions run on score:
Let them clap mufflers on again,
And physic thee of eighteen more.
| The poems of Dr. Yalden | |