University of Virginia Library

In the Court's absence hot Disputes arose,
Betwixt the Doctors and their Dogst**d Foes;
No Blows they had, but every warm Debate
Did in abusive Language terminate;
Quack, Emp'rick, Clyster-giver, Fool, and Knave,
Close-stool-Promoter, Buttock-peeping Slave,
Physician's Vassal

Apothecaries originally Servants to Physicians.

kept at first to Trot
With Vomit, Vial, Purge, and Gally-Pot,
To pick our Drugs and Herbs, and what is worse,
To bear the Teaze of ev'ry tatt'ling Nurse;
Drudge to the Pestle and a Charcoal Fire,
Only maintain'd to save a Porter's Hire,
And now! to thus audaciously presume
To prescribe Physick in a Doctor's room,
When you no more of Theory understand,
Than Monsters in the Ocean do of Land:
Whence sprang this unaccountable advance,
But from base Impudence and Ignorance?
Whence can you boast your Knowledge, lest you own,
By study of your Files you're Learned grown?
And if you do, 'tis but a weak defence,
For none but Quacks from Recipes Commence:
If from Prescriptions you could once attain
To be a competent Physician,
Read Usher's Sermons, where the Gospel shines,
And you as well may make your selves Divines:
How will ye find, by an old musty Bill,
New Patients Constitutions when they're Ill?
Or if unlearn'd in Physick's crabbed Laws,
How the Distemper judge, or guess the Cause?
No, your pretended Skill's a dangerous Cheat,
To bubble those who want both Health and Wit.
If an old File can such Instructions give,
As teach you how to make the Dying Live,
How far must we Excel, what Wonders do,
Who gave at first those Recipes to you!

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—

The Judge returning, ended the Dispute,
And with his awful Presence struck 'em Mute;
As wrangling Mob, together by the Ears,
Grow silent when the Constable appears.
Down in great Pomp the grave Assembly sits,
The Lamps grew dim, the Cryer call'd fresh Lights.
Then Pluto's Orator his Papers spread,
And to the Court this short Oration made:
My Lord—
Within the Circle of a solar Year,
Such numbers of these Criminals appear
At this last Bar of Justice, that there needs
But short recital of their sinful Deeds;
A long Exordium therefore I'll forbear,
And just remind your Lordship what they are.

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.

From hence, my Lord, it plainly does appear,
Such Doctors many Thousands in a Year,
Secundum Artem, kill, for want of good small Beer.
Thus is the noblest Science most abus'd,
And Patients by unskilful Quacks misus'd.
These Mercenary Methods they pursu'd,
Regarding nothing but their own Self-Good.
What Pains to these inhumane Crimes are due,
My Lord, I humbly must submit to you.

The Judge arose, his Countenance compos'd,
And to the Pris'ners thus his Mind disclos'd;
You who, pursuant to the God's Decree,
Are to receive your final Doom from me,
Your Crimes are great, which you your selves well know,
Expect no Mercy, for I none can show;
Since you with loathsome Slops have Crowds destroy'd,
Whilst you your selves good wholsome Food enjoy'd;
Kill'd on, without regard to dying Groans,
And fill'd Church-Yards with your own Skeletons,
To Pains I'll doom ye, yet to Hell unknown,
Proportion'd to the hainious Ills you've done:
Such pois'nous Drenches shall you always swill,
As more and more torment, but never kill:
Each odious Draught shall still encrease your Hate,
And gripe you worse than Asnick does a Rat.
As close as barrel'd Figs you shall be cram'd,
Without the hopes of being e'er undamn'd:
There Purge, Spue, Piss, Sweat, to the worst degree,
And stink together to Eternity.

The Doctors at their Sentence hawk'd and spit,
The Apothecaries puk'd with meer conceit,
And with sad sickly Looks did humbly pray
The Court, they might be damn'd the common way:
The Judge to their Request had no regard,
But sent 'em to receive their just Reward.