The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] ... With a Copious Index. To which is prefixed Some Account of his Life. In Four Volumes |
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THE DOCTORS;
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
THE DOCTORS;
A TALE.
A fellow troubled with the itch
(Like courtier-men) of getting rich,
And learning that a doctor (not a quack),
By means of a most potent pill,
Did verily and truly fill
Full many a time with gold his sack—
Resolv'd, by pill, to make a fortune too,
So set about it without more ado.
(Like courtier-men) of getting rich,
And learning that a doctor (not a quack),
By means of a most potent pill,
Did verily and truly fill
Full many a time with gold his sack—
491
So set about it without more ado.
Hoist but the standard, folks will come,
With heads as empty as the drum.
The quack puffs off his pill—none doubt him:
A bumpkin came among the rest,
And thus the man of pill addrest:
With heads as empty as the drum.
The quack puffs off his pill—none doubt him:
A bumpkin came among the rest,
And thus the man of pill addrest:
‘Zur, hearing what is come to pass,
That your fine pill hath cur'd the king,
And able to do every thing,
D'ye think, zur, that 'twill make me vind my ass?
I've lost my ass, zur, zo should like to try it:
If this be your opinion, sur, I'll buy it.’
That your fine pill hath cur'd the king,
And able to do every thing,
D'ye think, zur, that 'twill make me vind my ass?
I've lost my ass, zur, zo should like to try it:
If this be your opinion, sur, I'll buy it.’
‘Undoubtedly!’ the quack replied,
‘Yes, Master Hob, it should be tried:’
Then down Hob's gullet, cure or kill,
The grand impostor push'd the pill.
Hob paid his fee, and off he went;
And trav'lling on about an hour,
His bowels sore with pains were rent:
Such was the pill's surprising pow'r.
‘Yes, Master Hob, it should be tried:’
Then down Hob's gullet, cure or kill,
The grand impostor push'd the pill.
Hob paid his fee, and off he went;
And trav'lling on about an hour,
His bowels sore with pains were rent:
Such was the pill's surprising pow'r.
No longer able to contain,
Hob, in a hurry left the lane:
How decent!—what can decency surpass?
And sought the grove—where Hob's two eyes,
Wide staring, saw with huge surprise
His long-ear'd servant Jack, his ass!
Ye gods! how happy was the meeting!
Hob kissing Jack, and Jack, Hob greeting.
Hob, in a hurry left the lane:
How decent!—what can decency surpass?
And sought the grove—where Hob's two eyes,
Wide staring, saw with huge surprise
His long-ear'd servant Jack, his ass!
Ye gods! how happy was the meeting!
Hob kissing Jack, and Jack, Hob greeting.
‘Adzooks! a lucky pill!’ quoth Hob:
‘Yes, yes, the pill hath done the job.’
Pill grew the subject of the village tattle:
At last it gain'd a heap of fame;
Not only good for blind and lame,
But good, too, for recovering all stray'd cattle.
‘Yes, yes, the pill hath done the job.’
Pill grew the subject of the village tattle:
At last it gain'd a heap of fame;
Not only good for blind and lame,
But good, too, for recovering all stray'd cattle.
492
Now ponder well ye parents dear—
Pitt's no catholicon, I fear:
Pitt is a violent cathartic,
Creating very grievous gripes
(In butcher phrase) among our tripes,
Making the stomach, head, and heart sick:
Pitt's no catholicon, I fear:
Pitt is a violent cathartic,
Creating very grievous gripes
(In butcher phrase) among our tripes,
Making the stomach, head, and heart sick:
Producing much evacuation
Unto a poor consumptive nation,
That wants restoratives called pounds,
To give her strength, and heal her wounds.
Unto a poor consumptive nation,
That wants restoratives called pounds,
To give her strength, and heal her wounds.
Though clever in his Treasury rostrum,
Pitt never yet possess'd a nostrum
For bringing all stray'd millions back again:
The guineas he sent out, we find,
Were like so many beetles blind,
Rambling the Lord knows where, like show'rs of rain,
Making the German regions smile,
Instead of Albion's famish'd isle.
Pitt never yet possess'd a nostrum
For bringing all stray'd millions back again:
The guineas he sent out, we find,
Were like so many beetles blind,
Rambling the Lord knows where, like show'rs of rain,
Making the German regions smile,
Instead of Albion's famish'd isle.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |