Poems Lyrique Macaronique Heroique | ||
149
To W. M. Esq;
I being in a Course of Physick and newly recoverd of a Squinancy, February, 1659.
For
Burr of Ear, and Burr in Throat,
'Tis better with me, then ith' Moat-
Ed-Chamber, when for fear of Squincy.
Toung was worm'd, and Woolsie Lincy,
Hooded Head like Hawke with Muzzle,
(A Sight, would put one, to the Puzzle)
Not unlike Ben. Johnsons Morose,
That was wrapt and wrapt before us.
Those thousand things (if I could speak'um
As Hampshire-hony, Album Græcum,
Black Wooll, with Drop of Aqua-vitæ,
Ears of Jew (a Dose would fright ye)
For the Uunla, the seeds of Cummin
With Roasted Egg and Dog's T--- some in.
All these are laid aside, but worse!
I've Medicines, now, for any Horse.
Potions and Vomits, with a Glyster,
Bolus and Mass of Pills, for Mister
Bold, diseas'd with Stone oth' Kidney,
Or Bladder (not like Kester Sidney
Who was wont, with knitting Needle
'Ere he piss'd, with Tool to meddle
To make passage, for his Urine.)
No! I am sound, as Roach: but curing,
Mongst other Griefs, (for nothing swerve I)
The Downright Dropsie, and the Scurvey,
For I am not, so full of Mocks,
Or Riches, to nick name the Pocks,
Or see the searchers, of the City,
To cry, when I am Dead—Tis pitty.
This man e'ne pin'd away with Grief,
He's e'ne Consum'd to nought—in breif,
Let him make One amongst this Weeks
Account—Consumption-Eighty six.
'Tis better with me, then ith' Moat-
Ed-Chamber, when for fear of Squincy.
Toung was worm'd, and Woolsie Lincy,
Hooded Head like Hawke with Muzzle,
(A Sight, would put one, to the Puzzle)
Not unlike Ben. Johnsons Morose,
That was wrapt and wrapt before us.
Those thousand things (if I could speak'um
As Hampshire-hony, Album Græcum,
Black Wooll, with Drop of Aqua-vitæ,
Ears of Jew (a Dose would fright ye)
For the Uunla, the seeds of Cummin
With Roasted Egg and Dog's T--- some in.
All these are laid aside, but worse!
I've Medicines, now, for any Horse.
Potions and Vomits, with a Glyster,
Bolus and Mass of Pills, for Mister
150
Or Bladder (not like Kester Sidney
Who was wont, with knitting Needle
'Ere he piss'd, with Tool to meddle
To make passage, for his Urine.)
No! I am sound, as Roach: but curing,
Mongst other Griefs, (for nothing swerve I)
The Downright Dropsie, and the Scurvey,
For I am not, so full of Mocks,
Or Riches, to nick name the Pocks,
Or see the searchers, of the City,
To cry, when I am Dead—Tis pitty.
This man e'ne pin'd away with Grief,
He's e'ne Consum'd to nought—in breif,
Let him make One amongst this Weeks
Account—Consumption-Eighty six.
But heark you Friend, though I am still,
At Death's Door, will I fear none ill,
And therefore, send this, as a warning,
To tell you, I will come ith' morning,
And Drink your Health, however fare I,
Till then, and ever;
At Death's Door, will I fear none ill,
And therefore, send this, as a warning,
To tell you, I will come ith' morning,
And Drink your Health, however fare I,
Till then, and ever;
Your, Bold Harry.
Poems Lyrique Macaronique Heroique | ||