The works of Mr. Thomas Brown Serious and Comical, In Prose and Verse; In four volumes. The Fourth Edition, Corrected, and much Enlarged from his Originals never before publish'd. With a key to all his Writings |
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A Satire upon an ignorant Quack, that
murder'd a Friend's Child, and occasion'd the Mother, upon the News of it, to Miscarry.
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 | The works of Mr. Thomas Brown |  |
70
A Satire upon an ignorant Quack, that murder'd a Friend's Child, and occasion'd the Mother, upon the News of it, to Miscarry.
Tho' 'twas thy Luck to cheat the fatal Tree,
Thanks to the partial Herd that quitted thee;
And, to the lasting Scandal of our Times,
Thou'rt still reserv'd to act anew thy Crimes,
Think not to 'scape the Justice of my Rhimes.
Th'impartial Muse, in pointed stabbing Verse,
Shall all thy several Villanies rehearse;
With Wreaths of Henbane she'll adorn thy Head,
She'll hunt thee Living, and she'll plague thee Dead.
Thanks to the partial Herd that quitted thee;
And, to the lasting Scandal of our Times,
Thou'rt still reserv'd to act anew thy Crimes,
Think not to 'scape the Justice of my Rhimes.
Th'impartial Muse, in pointed stabbing Verse,
Shall all thy several Villanies rehearse;
With Wreaths of Henbane she'll adorn thy Head,
She'll hunt thee Living, and she'll plague thee Dead.
Base sordid Monster! Mercenary Slave!
Thou Church-Yard Pimp, and Pander to the Grave,
Death's busy Factor, Son of Desolation,
Thy Country's Curse, and Grievance of the Nation.
Thou motly Lump of Ignorance and Pride,
In all the scoundrel Arts of Killing try'd;
How shall I tell thy Guilt, or how begin
To lash a Villain crusted o'er with Sin?
Sure in some Powder-mill, that hot-brain'd Sot
Thy Father in the Dog-days thee begot;
And some She-Bear, in horrid Woods alone,
Suckled thee young, and nurst thee for her own.
Hence thy sour brutal Temper first began,
The Beast was thinly plated with the Man.
No Beams of softning Pity touch thy Breast,
Too vile a Cell to harbour such a Guest.
Oh hadst thou liv'd in that curst Tyrant's Reign,
By whose Command the Innocents were slain,
Herod might then have sav'd his Men the Pains,
At Bethlem to knock out the Children's Brains.
Thy Pills alone the fatal Work had done,
And soon dispatch'd them, every Mother's Son.
Why with our Laws, vain Volumes do we fill,
If such as thou have privilege to kill?
Mean, lousy Felons, for less Crimes by far
Have oft receiv'd their Sentence at the Bar:
I'th' Face of Day, thou robb'st us of our Health,
And yet art never question'd for the Stealth.
Sure some dire Planet all thy Steps pursues,
Name All-kill, and a Sickness strait ensues.
Thro' thy destroying Skill Diseases reign,
Nor did a Blacksmith teach thee first in vain;
Not Sword, nor Plague, nor Famine ravage more,
Thou kill'st, and Fate has hardly Time to score.
Death, tho' unsought, waits on thy murdring Quill,
Attends each Dose, and lurks in every Pill.
With little Pains, and very little bribing,
Whole Nations might be kill'd by thy prescribing.
But know, dull Sot, the dreadful Hour's at Hand,
When before aweful Justice thou must stand.
The Muse her ancient Freedom does assume,
Then tremble, while she thus proclaims thy Doom.
Thou Church-Yard Pimp, and Pander to the Grave,
Death's busy Factor, Son of Desolation,
Thy Country's Curse, and Grievance of the Nation.
Thou motly Lump of Ignorance and Pride,
In all the scoundrel Arts of Killing try'd;
How shall I tell thy Guilt, or how begin
To lash a Villain crusted o'er with Sin?
Sure in some Powder-mill, that hot-brain'd Sot
Thy Father in the Dog-days thee begot;
And some She-Bear, in horrid Woods alone,
Suckled thee young, and nurst thee for her own.
Hence thy sour brutal Temper first began,
The Beast was thinly plated with the Man.
No Beams of softning Pity touch thy Breast,
Too vile a Cell to harbour such a Guest.
Oh hadst thou liv'd in that curst Tyrant's Reign,
By whose Command the Innocents were slain,
Herod might then have sav'd his Men the Pains,
At Bethlem to knock out the Children's Brains.
Thy Pills alone the fatal Work had done,
And soon dispatch'd them, every Mother's Son.
Why with our Laws, vain Volumes do we fill,
If such as thou have privilege to kill?
71
Have oft receiv'd their Sentence at the Bar:
I'th' Face of Day, thou robb'st us of our Health,
And yet art never question'd for the Stealth.
Sure some dire Planet all thy Steps pursues,
Name All-kill, and a Sickness strait ensues.
Thro' thy destroying Skill Diseases reign,
Nor did a Blacksmith teach thee first in vain;
Not Sword, nor Plague, nor Famine ravage more,
Thou kill'st, and Fate has hardly Time to score.
Death, tho' unsought, waits on thy murdring Quill,
Attends each Dose, and lurks in every Pill.
With little Pains, and very little bribing,
Whole Nations might be kill'd by thy prescribing.
But know, dull Sot, the dreadful Hour's at Hand,
When before aweful Justice thou must stand.
The Muse her ancient Freedom does assume,
Then tremble, while she thus proclaims thy Doom.
For Grubstreet Doggrel furnish out a Tale,
And be the Jest of Midwives o'er their Ale:
For Scalded Heads, most learnedly advise,
And in the Case of Kibes, seem monstrous wise:
Be ne'er consulted 'bove a Boil or Blister,
And to my Lady's Lap-Dog give a Glister.
If thou hast a mind to pick up nasty Pence,
Set up for Farrier in thy own Defence.
Cure Hogs of Measles, visit labouring Swine,
And order Doses for thy Neighbour's Kine.
Reign over Beasts from Bersheba to Dan,
But never, never meddle more with Man.
May none seek Help from thy damn'd Remedies,
But senseless Brutes that Health and Fame despise.
But Sots, on whom each canting Fool imposes,
And Carted Bawds, and Strumpets without Noses,
Be the most scorn'd Jack-Pudding in the Pack,
And turn Toad-eater to some foreign Quack.
Gout, Pox, and Stone, with all attending Ills,
Thou hast so often threatned in thy Bills,
Thee, with fresh Rage incessantly devour,
And leave their pointed Darts in every Pore.
Let them with Force united make thee smart,
And own thy self a Blockhead in thy Art,
From these insulting Tyrants find no Quarter,
Put to thy own Prescriptions fall a Martyr.
On thy vile self the baleful Potions try,
Then damn old Galen, and by piece-meal die.
But let no Fever, (for I'll once be kind)
Or Pestilence to thee admission find;
Those generous Foes too soon conclude their Rage,
I'd have thee tortur'd for at least an Age.
May all that Malice, fruitful to torment,
All that Revenge of Priesthood can invent;
All that on Earth despairing Wretches fear,
Light on thy Head, and kindly center there.
Mark'd with Heaven's Stamp, like Adam's murdring Son,
Thro' the whole Globe, a branded Villain run,
And all Mankind the raving Monster shun.
Despis'd, abandon'd rove from Pole to Pole,
Thy Carcass jaded by thy restless Soul.
Where-e'er thou goest, a Mother's Curses meet,
Pale Nurses thee with Execrations greet,
And wrinkled Witches, when they truck with Hell
Invoke thy Name, and use it for a Spell.
Blaspheming leave the World, and never know,
The least remitting Interval from Woe.
Dire Conscience all thy guilty Dreams affright,
With the most solemn Horrors of the Night,
The Screams of Infants ever fill thy Ears,
And injur'd Heaven be deaf to all thy Vows and Prayers.
And be the Jest of Midwives o'er their Ale:
For Scalded Heads, most learnedly advise,
And in the Case of Kibes, seem monstrous wise:
Be ne'er consulted 'bove a Boil or Blister,
And to my Lady's Lap-Dog give a Glister.
If thou hast a mind to pick up nasty Pence,
Set up for Farrier in thy own Defence.
Cure Hogs of Measles, visit labouring Swine,
And order Doses for thy Neighbour's Kine.
Reign over Beasts from Bersheba to Dan,
But never, never meddle more with Man.
May none seek Help from thy damn'd Remedies,
But senseless Brutes that Health and Fame despise.
But Sots, on whom each canting Fool imposes,
And Carted Bawds, and Strumpets without Noses,
Be the most scorn'd Jack-Pudding in the Pack,
And turn Toad-eater to some foreign Quack.
Gout, Pox, and Stone, with all attending Ills,
Thou hast so often threatned in thy Bills,
Thee, with fresh Rage incessantly devour,
And leave their pointed Darts in every Pore.
72
And own thy self a Blockhead in thy Art,
From these insulting Tyrants find no Quarter,
Put to thy own Prescriptions fall a Martyr.
On thy vile self the baleful Potions try,
Then damn old Galen, and by piece-meal die.
But let no Fever, (for I'll once be kind)
Or Pestilence to thee admission find;
Those generous Foes too soon conclude their Rage,
I'd have thee tortur'd for at least an Age.
May all that Malice, fruitful to torment,
All that Revenge of Priesthood can invent;
All that on Earth despairing Wretches fear,
Light on thy Head, and kindly center there.
Mark'd with Heaven's Stamp, like Adam's murdring Son,
Thro' the whole Globe, a branded Villain run,
And all Mankind the raving Monster shun.
Despis'd, abandon'd rove from Pole to Pole,
Thy Carcass jaded by thy restless Soul.
Where-e'er thou goest, a Mother's Curses meet,
Pale Nurses thee with Execrations greet,
And wrinkled Witches, when they truck with Hell
Invoke thy Name, and use it for a Spell.
Blaspheming leave the World, and never know,
The least remitting Interval from Woe.
Dire Conscience all thy guilty Dreams affright,
With the most solemn Horrors of the Night,
The Screams of Infants ever fill thy Ears,
And injur'd Heaven be deaf to all thy Vows and Prayers.
Thus have I eas'd in part my wrathful Spleen,
Nor canst thou say the Muse has been too keen.
What-e'er the fiercest Satire can inspire,
Falls vastly short of what thy Crimes require.
What Punishment can too severe be thought
For thee, by whom such num'rous ills are wrought?
The Living sent to an untimely Tomb,
And unborn Infants murder'd in the Womb.
For seiz'd with Grief, that by thy fatal Aid
Her much wrong'd Child was of its Life betray'd,
The expiring Parent, whom scarce Art could save,
Paid an untimely Tribute to the Grave.
To what degree do Quacks like thee, annoy,
Who can ev'n Life, before it comes, destroy?
Nor canst thou say the Muse has been too keen.
What-e'er the fiercest Satire can inspire,
Falls vastly short of what thy Crimes require.
What Punishment can too severe be thought
For thee, by whom such num'rous ills are wrought?
The Living sent to an untimely Tomb,
And unborn Infants murder'd in the Womb.
73
Her much wrong'd Child was of its Life betray'd,
The expiring Parent, whom scarce Art could save,
Paid an untimely Tribute to the Grave.
To what degree do Quacks like thee, annoy,
Who can ev'n Life, before it comes, destroy?
| The works of Mr. Thomas Brown | |