University of Virginia Library

Your Sage and Moralist can show
Many Misfortunes here below,
A Truth which no one ever miss'd,
Tho' neither Sage nor Moralist:
Yet, all the Troubles notwithstanding,
Which Fate or Fortune has a hand in,
Fools to themselves will more create,
In spite of Fortune and of Fate.
Thus oft are dreaming Wretches seen,
Tortur'd with Vapours, and with Spleen;
Transform'd (at least in their own eyes)
To Glass, or China, or Goose-Pies.
Others will to themselves appear
Stone-dead, as Will. the Conqueror;
And all the world in vain might strive
To face them down, that they're alive.
Unlucky Males with Child will groan,
And sorely dread their lying down;
As fearing, that to ease their pain,
May puzzle Doctor Chamberlain.
Imaginary Evils flow,
Merely for want of real Woe;
And when prevailing Whimsies rise,
As monstrous wild Absurdities
Are, ev'ry hour, and ev'ry minute,
Found without Bedlam, as within it:
Which if you farther would have shown,
And Leisure have to read,—read on.

There liv'd a Gentleman, possest
Of all that Mortals reckon best:
A Seat well-chose in wholesome Air,
With Gardens and with Prospects fair:
His Land from Debt and Jointure free,
His Money, never in South-Sea:
His Health of Body firm and good,
Tho' past the Hey-day in his Blood:
His Consort fair, and good, and kind;
His Children rising to his mind:
His Friends ingenious and sincere;
His Honour, nay his Conscience clear:
He wanted nought of human Bliss,
But Pow'r to taste his Happiness.

Too near, alas! this Great Man's Hall
A merry Cobler had a Stall;
An arch old Wag as e'er you knew,
With Breeches red and Jerkin blue;
Chearful at working, as at play,
He sung and whistled Life away:
When rising Morning glads the Sky,
Clear as the merry Lark, and high;
When Evening Shades the Landskip veil,
Late warbling as the Nightingale.
Tho' Pence came slow, and Trade was ill,
Yet still he sung and whistled still;
Tho' patch'd his Garb, and coarse his Fare,
He laugh'd, and cast away old Care.

The rich Man view'd with Discontent
His tatter'd Neighbour's Merriment,
With Envy grudg'd, and pin'd to see
A Beggar pleasanter than He;
And, by degrees, to hate began
Th' intolerable happy Man,
Who haunted him, like any Sprite,
From Morn to Eve, by Day and Night.

It chanc'd, when once in Bed he lay,
When Dreams are true, at break of day,
He heard the Cobler at his Sport,
Amidst his Musick stopping short:
Whether his Morning Draught he took,
Or warming Whiff of wonted Smoke,
The 'Squire suspected, being shrewd,
This Silence boded him no good;
And, 'cause he nothing saw nor heard,
A Machiavilian Plot he fear'd.
Strait Circumstances crowded plain
To vex and plague his jealous Brain:
Trembling in pannick dread he lies,
With gaping Mouth and staring Eyes;
And straining wistful both his Ears,
He soon persuades himself he hears
One skip and caper up the Stairs,
Sees the Door open quick, and knew
His dreaded Foe in Red and Blue,
Who, with a running Jump, he thought,
Leap'd plumb directly down his Throat,
Laden with Tackle of his Stall,
Last, Ends, and Hammer, Strap, and Awl:
No sooner down, than with a jerk
He fell to musick, and to work.
If much he griev'd our Don before,
When but o' th' Outside of his Door,
How sorely must he now molest,
When got o' th' Inside of his Breast!
The waking Dreamer groans and swells,
And Pangs imaginary feels;
Catches, and Scraps of Tunes he hears
For ever ringing in his Ears;
Ill-favour'd Smells his Nose displease,
Mundungus strong, and rotten Cheese:
He feels him, when he draws his breath,
Or tug the Leather with his teeth;
Or beat the Sole, or else extend
His Arms to th' utmost of his End,
Enough to crack, when stretch'd so wide,
The Ribs of any mortal Side.
Is there no method then to fly
This vile intestine Enemy?
What can be done in this condition,
But sending instant for Physician?

The Doctor, having heard the Case,
Burst into laughter in his face;
Told him, he needs no more than rise,
Open his Windows, and his Eyes,
Whistling and stitching there to see
The Cobler, as he us'd to be.
Sir, quoth the Patient, your Pretences
Shall ne'er persuade me from my Senses:
How should I rise? the heavy Brute
Will hardly let me wag a foot:
Tho' Seeing for Belief may go,
Yet Feeling is the Truth, you know:
I feel him in my Sides I tell ye;
Had You a Cobler in your Belly,
You scarce would fleer as now you do;
I doubt your Guts would grumble too:
Still do you laugh? I tell you, Sir,
I'd kick you soundly, could I stir:
Thou Quack, that never hadst Degree
In either University;
Thou meer Licentiate, without knowledge,
The shame and scandal of the College:
I'll call my Servants, if you stay;
So, Doctor, scamper while you may.

One thus dispatch'd, a second came,
Of equal skill, and greater fame;
Who swore him mad as a March Hare,
(For Doctors, when provok'd, will swear.)
To drive such Whimsies from his Pate,
He drag'd him to the Window strait.
But jilting Fortune can devise
To baffle and outwit the wise;
The Cobler, e'er expos'd to view,
Had just pull'd off his Jerkin Blue,
Not dreaming 'twould his Neighbour hurt,
To sit in Fresco in his Shirt.
Ah! quoth the Patient, with a Sigh,
You know him not so well as I;
The Man who down my Throat is run,
Has got a true-blue Jerkin on.
In vain the Doctor rav'd and tore,
Argu'd and fretted, stamp'd and swore;
Told him he might believe as well
The Giant of Pantagruel
Did oft, as break his fast or sup,
For poach'd Eggs swallow Windmills up;
Or that the Holland Dame could bear
A Child, for ev'ry day i' th' year.
The vapour'd Dotard, grave and sly,
Mistook for Truth each rapping Lye;
And drew Conclusions such as these,
Resistless from the Premisses:

I hope, my Friends, you'll grant me all,
A Windmill's bigger than a Stall:
And since the Lady brought alive
Children, Three hundred sixty five,
Why should you think there is not room
For one poor Cobler in my Womb?
Thus ev'ry thing his Friends could say
The more confirm'd him in his way:
Farther convinc'd, by what they tell,
'Twas certain, tho' impossible.

Now worse and worse his piteous State
Was grown, and almost desperate:
Yet still the utmost bent to try,
Without more Help he would not die.
An old Physician, sly and shrewd,
With management of Face endu'd,
Heard all his Tale; and ask'd, with care,
How long the Cobler had been there?
Noted distinctly what he said;
Lift up his Eyes, and shook his Head,
And grave accosts him, on this fashion,
After mature deliberation,
With serious and important Face,
Sir, your's is an uncommon Case:
Tho' I've read Galen's Latin o'er,
I never met with it before;
Nor have I found the like Disease,
In Stories of Hippocrates.
Then, after a convenient stay,—
—Sir, if Prescription you'll obey,
My Life for your's, I'll set you free
From this same two-leg'd Tympany.
'Tis true, you're gone beyond the Cure
Of fam'd Worm-powder of John Moor;
Besides, if downwards he be sent,
I fear he'll split your nether Vent:
But then your Throat, you know, is wide,
And scarcely clos'd, since it was try'd;
The same way he got in, 'tis plain,
There's room to fetch him out again:
I'll bring the forked Worm away,
Without a Dysenteria:
Emeticks strong will do the feat,
If taken quantum sufficit:
I'll see myself the proper Dose,
And then Hypnoticks to compose.
The Wretch, tho' languishing and weak,
Reviv'd already by the Greek,
Cries, What so learn'd a man as you
Prescribes, dear Doctor, I shall do.
The Vomit speedily was got,
The Cobler sent for to the spot,
And taught to manage the deceit,
And not his Doublet to forget.
But first the Operator wise
Over the Sight a Bandage ties:
For Vomits always strain the Eyes.
Courage! I'll make you disembogue,
Spight of his teeth, th' unlucky Rogue;
I'll drench the Rascal, never fear,
And bring him up, or drown him there.
Warm Water down he makes him pour,
'Till his stretch'd Guts could hold no more;
Which doubly swoll'n, as you may think,
Both with the Cobler, and the Drink,
What they receiv'd against the grain,
Soon paid with Interest back again.
Here comes his Tools, he can't be long
Without his Hammer and his Thong.
The Cobler humour'd what was spoke,
And gravely carry'd on the Joke;
As he heard nam'd each single matter,
He chuck'd it souse into the Water;
And then, not to be seen as yet,
Behind the door made his retreat.
The sick Man now takes breath a-while,
Strength to recruit for farther toil:
Unblinded he, with joyful eyes,
The Tackle floating there espies;
Fully convinc'd within his mind,
The Cobler could not stay behind,
Who to the Alehouse still would go,
Whene'er he wanted Work to do:
Nor could he like his present place,
He ne'er lov'd Water in his days.
At length he takes a second bout,
Enough to turn him inside out;
With vehemence so sore he strains,
As would have split another's Brains.
Ay! here the Cobler comes, I swear!
And truth it was, for he was there,
And, like a rude ill-manner'd Clown,
Kick'd with his Foot the Vomit down.
The Patient, now grown wondrous light,
Whip'd off the Napkin from his sight,
Briskly lift up his Head, and knew
The Breeches and the Jerkin's Hue;
And smil'd to hear him grumbling say,
As down the Stairs he ran his way,
He'd ne'er set foot within his door,
And jump down open Throats no more;
No; while he liv'd, he'd ne'er again
Run, like a Fox, down the Red Lane.

Our Patient thus, his Inmate gone,
Cur'd of the Crotchets in his Crown,
Joyful his Gratitude expresses,
With thousand Thanks and hundred Pieces:
And thus, with much of Pains and Cost,
Regain'd the Health, he never lost.

MORAL.

Taught by long Miseries, we find
Repose is seated in the Mind;
And most Men soon or late have own'd,
'Tis there, or no where, to be found.
This real Wisdom timely knows,
Without Experience of the Woes;
Nor needs instructive Smart, to see,
That all on Earth is Vanity.
Loss, Disappointment, Passion, Strife,
Whate'er torments or troubles Life,
Tho' groundless, grievous in its stay,
'Twill shake our Tenements of Clay,
When past, as nothing we esteem;
And Pain like Pleasure is but Dream.