University of Virginia Library

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37

LETTER IV. Major General Firebrand, to Colonel Carbuncle, at the Horse-Guards.

SYMPTOMS of the GOUT.

After jostlings and rumblings—thank Heaven, all past,
I am nestled in Death's Anti-Chamber at last.
Thus far I've obey'd the Licentiate Bolus,
Who when every thing got to the worst,
To avoid being curst,
Sent Hope and me here to—console us.

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But Physicians can singer his treasure,
And use e'en Achilles at pleasure;
For when they have drugg'd him as thin as a lath,
To keep up a semblance of skill,
Against the Patient's will
They send the Dolt to Bath!
'Tis a shame, my good friend, which I'm sure you must own,
That Disease will not let an old Soldier alone,
To descend to the Grave, his forefathers' abode,
But Anguish must goad him a-down the steep road.—
As frail Nature's decay'd—to know what has shock'd her,
I have sent honest Dick for an eminent Doctor:
His name is Deathfilius, he'll tell what the fact is,
He's a man of vast parts, with abundance of practice:
By the Lord, here he is,—I must lay down the pen,—
When he's gone I'll begin my sick minutes agen.

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By the corslet of Mars I don't know what can ail me,
But my vigour, my limbs, and my appetite fail me:
My feet are both crippled, I can't stand upright
Without these thick crutches—I'm losing my sight.

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Oh! don't touch that part, there the Fiends make most ravage,
'Tis as sore as the scull of a newly scalp'd Savage:—
I'm as dry as a spunge, and could drink up a river,
All my joints are as hot as Silenus's Liver:—
I wish that Greek Zeno'd establish'd a College,
To teach us good fellows some practical knowledge;
How we all, when we pleas'd, might get rid of our feeling,
And not with curst cramps thro' creation be reeling.

Now I'll shew you a sight that would make Bruno talk,—
Behold my big knuckles!—these lumps are all chalk:
On my honour 'tis true—I could now keep a score
On a slate in a Bar, or behind the room door.
If you find out the cause of these evils, and cure me,
I will make you a Man, or may Glory abjure me.

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On this the prodigious Physician,
To investigate right my condition;
With finger and thumb prest his chin,
And appear'd to retire within:
His cheeks grew more round, tho' intent was his stare,
Like a bladder when filling with air;
Till the judgment becoming mature,
His action was sure:
Then with no small assumption of medical fuss,
Began thus:—
“Your pulse is at ninety—aye, something is wrong;
“Let me handle your foot—if you please, shew your tongue—
“I wish from my soul that your blood beat more slow—
“How are you for motions?” I told him—so, so.—
Upon this old Deathfilius, with evident pride,
And cane to his nostril, most vehement cried:

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“Ah! a la bonheur, I have found your case out—
“I'll be shot if all these are not Symptoms of Gout!!!”

As I know, friend Carbuncle,
You're pinch'd by your Uncle,
And sometimes tormented with chronick complainings;
To save your professional gainings,
And preserve your lank purse from the loss of a fee,
I've inclos'd you the recipe Galen gave me.
Catharticum.
Gummi gambogiæ, sacchari purificati,
Mercurii dulcis sublimati,
Scrupulum unum.
(All these clean the guts and new tune 'em.)
Then next you must mix, tho' their rage will confine us,
Radicis jalapii plus aut minus.

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There, you varlet, 's a gift your abdomen will rinse,
And the Doctor affirms 'tis a dose for a Prince.

POSTSCRIPT.