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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To my Friend Mr. Playford; on the Publication of his second Book of Pills.
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 | The works of Mr. Thomas Brown |  |
56
To my Friend Mr. Playford; on the Publication of his second Book of Pills.
Friend
Harry, to prove that your Thoughts were absurd,
For supposing I could not be true to my Word,
According to the Promise which I made long ago,
At last I have squeez'd out a Couplet or two
In the Praise of your Pills, and tho' my Verse late is,
Yet believe it's the first that I ever sent Gratis.
For supposing I could not be true to my Word,
According to the Promise which I made long ago,
At last I have squeez'd out a Couplet or two
In the Praise of your Pills, and tho' my Verse late is,
Yet believe it's the first that I ever sent Gratis.
By my Soul, I've been us'd so to Bolus and Potion,
That I'm ready to swoon at a Physical Notion;
And if you wou'd lend me, (that's give) a Jacobus:
I'm perswaded I cou'd not take Pill ex duobus:
However, since yours have no Turpentine Flavour,
Nor confine a Man close to his righteous Behaviour,
Since no bitter Ingredients give Offence to my Palate,
But they please me like Cheese which is toasted or Sallad,
I'll quit making Faces, to write Panegyrick,
Tho' I'm not half so fit for't as M. for Lyrick.
That I'm ready to swoon at a Physical Notion;
And if you wou'd lend me, (that's give) a Jacobus:
I'm perswaded I cou'd not take Pill ex duobus:
However, since yours have no Turpentine Flavour,
Nor confine a Man close to his righteous Behaviour,
Since no bitter Ingredients give Offence to my Palate,
But they please me like Cheese which is toasted or Sallad,
I'll quit making Faces, to write Panegyrick,
Tho' I'm not half so fit for't as M. for Lyrick.
To begin then, pray take it as Thomas his Sentence,
Your Pills will ne'er bring one to Stool of Repentance,
But will chase away Sorrow, which will hang on our Brows,
As a pretty young Girl do's a Batchellor's Vows,
Who, at Sight of her Beauty, drowns the Thoughts of Miscarriage,
And perjur'd, immediately sets up for Marriage.
Your Pills will ne'er bring one to Stool of Repentance,
But will chase away Sorrow, which will hang on our Brows,
As a pretty young Girl do's a Batchellor's Vows,
Who, at Sight of her Beauty, drowns the Thoughts of Miscarriage,
And perjur'd, immediately sets up for Marriage.
They're a Cure for a Fav'rite who had addled his Senses,
And has lost our Good Word by getting his Princes.
The thoughtful Good Statesman, who sits a-la-mort,
Because he's remov'd from Council and Court,
At the Taste of your Med'cines shall resign up his Grief,
And bless his Retirement, and bless your Relief.
All Conditions and Sexes, in Country and City
From thee wou'd be thought Wise, to the really Witty,
From the Lady who speaks all her Words as in Print,
And has Eyes which strike Fire like a Steel and a Flint.
To the Damsel whose Language is course as her Skin,
And who fain wou'd be dabling, but starts at the Sin,
As she stares at and covets the Thing call'd a Man,
And she thinks she cou'd do what her Ladyship can:
From the Prodigal Cit, who's a setling the Nation,
To the poor Country Thresher, who's as great in his Station.
From their Squireships and Knighthoods, and Lordships and Graces,
To the Man of no Title, who makes 'em wry Faces.
All alike shall be purg'd by your Laxative Verses,
Which shall loosen their Tongues instead of their Arses,
As they joyn in the Praises of what I commend,
And acknowledge you theirs, as I own you my Friend.
And has lost our Good Word by getting his Princes.
The thoughtful Good Statesman, who sits a-la-mort,
Because he's remov'd from Council and Court,
At the Taste of your Med'cines shall resign up his Grief,
And bless his Retirement, and bless your Relief.
All Conditions and Sexes, in Country and City
From thee wou'd be thought Wise, to the really Witty,
From the Lady who speaks all her Words as in Print,
And has Eyes which strike Fire like a Steel and a Flint.
57
And who fain wou'd be dabling, but starts at the Sin,
As she stares at and covets the Thing call'd a Man,
And she thinks she cou'd do what her Ladyship can:
From the Prodigal Cit, who's a setling the Nation,
To the poor Country Thresher, who's as great in his Station.
From their Squireships and Knighthoods, and Lordships and Graces,
To the Man of no Title, who makes 'em wry Faces.
All alike shall be purg'd by your Laxative Verses,
Which shall loosen their Tongues instead of their Arses,
As they joyn in the Praises of what I commend,
And acknowledge you theirs, as I own you my Friend.
London, June 28. 1700.
T. Brown.
| The works of Mr. Thomas Brown | |