Medulla Poetarum Romanorum Or, the Most Beautiful and Instructive Passages of the Roman Poets. Being a Collection, (Disposed under proper Heads,) Of such Descriptions, Allusions, Comparisons, Characters, and Sentiments, as may best serve to shew the Religion, Learning, Politicks, Arts, Customs, Opinions, Manners, and Circumstances of the Antients. With Translations of the same in English Verse. By Mr. Henry Baker |
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Physician and Patient. |
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 | Medulla Poetarum Romanorum |  |
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Physician and Patient.
Thus a sick Man to his Physician said:
Methinks I am not right in ev'ry Part:
I feel a kind of trembling at my Heart:
My Pulse unequal, and my Breath is strong,
Besides a filthy Fur upon my Tongue.
Methinks I am not right in ev'ry Part:
I feel a kind of trembling at my Heart:
My Pulse unequal, and my Breath is strong,
Besides a filthy Fur upon my Tongue.
The Doctor heard him, exercis'd his Skill:
And, after, bid him for four Days be still.
Three Days he took good Counsel, and began
To mend, and look like a recov'ring Man:
The fourth, he could not hold from drink, but sends
His Boy to one of his old trusty Friends:
Adjuring him, by all the Pow'rs divine,
To pity his Distress, who could not dine
Without a Flaggon of his healing Wine.
He drinks a swilling Draught, and lin'd within,
Will supple in the Bath his outward Skin.
Whom should he find but his Physician there,
Who, wisely, bad him once again, beware.
Sir, you look wan: you hardly draw your Breath:
Drinking is dang'rous, and the Bath is Death.
'Tis Nothing, says the Fool:—But, says the Friend,
This Nothing, Sir, will bring You to your End.
Do I not see your Dropsy-Belly swell?
Your yellow Skin?—No more of that, I'm well.
One of your Tribe I've bury'd, Sir, and He
Talk'd just as You do now:—
And, Doctor, I may live to bury Thee.
Thou tell'st me, I look ill: and Thou look'st worse.
I 'ave done, says the Physician;—take your Course.
The laughing Sot, like all unthinking Men,
Bathes and gets drunk: then bathes and drinks again.
His Throat half throtled with corrupted Phlegm,
And breathing thro' his Jaws a belching Steam,
Amidst his Cups with shiv'ring Faintness seiz'd,
His Limbs disjoynted, and all o'er diseas'd,
His Hand refuses to sustain the Bowl,
And his Teeth chatter, and his Eyeballs roll,
Till, with his Meat, he vomits out his Soul.—
Diseases in a thousand Forms are rang'd:
And, after, bid him for four Days be still.
Three Days he took good Counsel, and began
To mend, and look like a recov'ring Man:
The fourth, he could not hold from drink, but sends
His Boy to one of his old trusty Friends:
Adjuring him, by all the Pow'rs divine,
To pity his Distress, who could not dine
Without a Flaggon of his healing Wine.
He drinks a swilling Draught, and lin'd within,
Will supple in the Bath his outward Skin.
Whom should he find but his Physician there,
Who, wisely, bad him once again, beware.
Sir, you look wan: you hardly draw your Breath:
Drinking is dang'rous, and the Bath is Death.
'Tis Nothing, says the Fool:—But, says the Friend,
This Nothing, Sir, will bring You to your End.
Do I not see your Dropsy-Belly swell?
Your yellow Skin?—No more of that, I'm well.
One of your Tribe I've bury'd, Sir, and He
Talk'd just as You do now:—
And, Doctor, I may live to bury Thee.
Thou tell'st me, I look ill: and Thou look'st worse.
I 'ave done, says the Physician;—take your Course.
The laughing Sot, like all unthinking Men,
Bathes and gets drunk: then bathes and drinks again.
His Throat half throtled with corrupted Phlegm,
And breathing thro' his Jaws a belching Steam,
Amidst his Cups with shiv'ring Faintness seiz'd,
His Limbs disjoynted, and all o'er diseas'd,
223
And his Teeth chatter, and his Eyeballs roll,
Till, with his Meat, he vomits out his Soul.—
As Tempers alter, Med'cines must be chang'd.
The cutting Steel some Bodies must endure,
A simple Drug on many works a Cure.—
| Medulla Poetarum Romanorum | |