University of Virginia Library


103

A true Tale of a certain eminent Physician.

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The attribution of this poem is questionable.

A Humorous Friend of the physical Tribe,
For a funeral Sermon, a Parson would bribe.
Talk'd of Gloves, and of Scarfs, and of Rings, and a Will,
In which he should find a Reward for his Skill.
So my Domine Doctor, says he, when I die,
Get into your Tub, and say something that's high.
To be high, quoth the Priest, on a Subject so low,
Is a difficult Task brother Doctor, you know,
Of a Creature so odd, O what can I say,
Or how earn what I want, and you proffer to pay:
O where is your Merit, good Nature, or Grace,
Or for what are you known but for playing a Farce.
You've Letters, 'tis true, and the Honours possess,
Of L. M. or M. D. or perhaps F. R. S.
But what are all these for a pulpit Oration,
Which after you're gone may travel the Nation.
For where is the Man that a Tester won't pay,
To see what of you, I could possibly say?
Live or die, then my Friend, think no more of this Matter,
Unmerited Praise is the keenest of Satyr,
Nor oblige me to rail, nor tempt me to flatter.