Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

There are in Albion three o'ergrown professions,
Which Reason oft has sworn wont bear the test;
Physic is one, engendering quick Transgressions,
Of that keen varlets often make a jest.

Just warm from Edinburgh's death dealing college,
A stony-hearted Wight sought Worcester town;
Arm'd with diploma, wig, cane, cough, and frown,
To hide his want of academic knowledge:
There by Pharmacopolists prais'd 'bove measure,
He thinn'd the race of Britons at his pleasure.

No rueful rogue that ever took a fee,
Was higher priz'd by Atropos than he;

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He knew all arts to gather wealth or fame,
Gold was his God, and Ruin was his name.
Gave lime and lees for antimonial wine,
And, stead of Rhubarb, pulveriz'd brown wood;
Ground oyster shells, for alb. Magnesia, fine,
Which Ruin thought was every whit as good:
Gave snuff and vinegar by way of potion,
And chulk and water for a lenient lotion.

I've heard, in rural circles, Slander boast!
Old Ruin in his day had slain a host:
But who wont Envy slaver in her den,
The Doctor felt her stings, like other men.

'Tis said that Ruin, tho' immensely paid,
Took care, (like Tinkers, for the good of trade,)
Whene'er he brac'd the lungs, to heave the wind,
To leave an embryo, unborn Gout behind;
Of that sure Common Sense could ne'er complain,
The cause was policy, the end was gain:
But if she did, her taunts had ne'er distress'd him,
While Undertakers and the Devil bless'd him.
E'en tho' he had been taken in the fact,
His peers in Warwick-Lane would all have risen,
Like Drones emerging from their straw-built prison,
To justify the act;
Nor force, nor fraud, nor subtlety can part 'em,
When leagu'd to shield a Dolt, who kills secundum artem.

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But to the point,—a moisten'd sot, one Dick,
An honest Ale-Draper, fell wond'rous sick;
With woeful pangs his jocund mind was smitten,
Just as potatoes are frost bitten.
Ruin was call'd in haste to do his best,
And give Relief to Richard's tortur'd breast:
A fine slow fever was the sharp disease,
Which Ruin coax'd with joy, and snatch'd the fees.
He kindly sooth'd the dull, disorder'd ninny,
And chang'd, for many a rough, long-hoarded guinea,
Rec. cal. drachmas duas, sal. vol. quantum suff.
And all such cursed hocus-pocus stuff.
The Patient took this concrete as a bolus,
Tho' with a heavy heart,
He felt an inward, mortal, poignant smart,
Threaten to sepulchre his body solus.

I marvel that the young carbuncl'd God,
Or blythe Anacreon came not in the nick;
To hide their slave from Esculapius' rod,
And bear from Agony convivial Dick:
Nor God, nor Bacchant came to try their skill,
And Ruin goaded Richard at his will.

He blister'd him with mustard and crabs eyes,
A charming substitute for Spanish flies;
Then gave a lavement seven times a day!
Yet Richard's malady would not give way.

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He after lacerated Dick's warm veins,
Till the blood flow'd like streams from Lincoln's drains:
Yet not the least were Richard's ills assuag'd,
The more that Ruin did, the more the fever rag'd:
He pour'd Elixirs down his throat by gallons,
Yet could not disengage Death's morbid talons.
But Ruin, finding that the seat of life
Was touch'd, and Richard's soul and clay at strife,
Resolv'd to leave no means untried,
To rescue Richard from the Stygian tide,
Knowing an evil guest was in the house,
He quickly open'd every nat'ral door,
Teazing the fiend as kittens teaze a mouse,
Celsus himself I'm sure could do no more.
He plung'd him in the vapour baths quite hot,
Just as they throw a cabbage in a pot;
There he lay soaking for at least six hours,
Till Imbecility benumb'd his powers:
Whenever Dick 'bove water popt his head,
Pleading for mercy, being nearly dead;
Ruin, with furious ardour grasp'd his cane,
And pok'd the dripping Draper down again.
At last they dragg'd him out, when Dick's loose skin,
Was sodden'd well without, and wash'd within.
He fretted,
Sweated,
Moan'd,
Groan'd,
Alas!
Poor Dick, what an Ass!

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To extirpate his ills,
He gulph'd a waggon load of pills;
But, growing worse and worse,
And being brought to Penury's wide door,
Ragged, emaciate, and poor,
Mutter'd out somewhat like a sick man's curse!

Old Ruin seeing nothing left to pay,
Prepar'd, as Prudence urg'd, to go his way:
But ere he gave the Publican to Death,
Whose lungs could hardly yield responsive breath,
Holding the final fee, by thumb and finger prest,
He thus the pallid, piteous oaf addrest:—

Dick, I perceive you grudge this fee I've ta'en,
But that's a trifle, man, to banish pain:
Here! take this dose, you'll love me when you try it,
And who'd want ease, I prithee, that can buy it.

Ah! Doctor, Doctor, wheez'd the wretch in bed,
Lifting his palsied, cold, cadaverous head:
'Tis true, your efforts have subdu'd my pain,
For Death, thro' all my muscles, pulses, bones,
Now, whisp'ring, tells me, in unerring tones,
'Twill never come again!