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Think on the Meed, that tickles sweet your Hand, « The glitt’ring Meed, no Doctor can withstand.
o Tho Doctors differ ;--for the human Tripe « Tho’ some the Purge prefer, and some the Pipe ;
Or in th’Intestines raise the sharp Commotion, 70 • Some with a Pill, and others with a Potion ; • Tho', to apply the Flayer of the Skin, « Some hold a Virtue, others hold a Sin ; • In Antimony some their Trust repose, 6 And some in Mercury--to save a Nose ; « In this one Point ye never disagree, • Ye're all unanimous about the Fee.
• Come then, my Friends, (for now methinks Ifpy
A mild Complacency in ev'ry Eye,) · Think on the Meed, that tickles sweet your Hand, 80 « The glitt'ring Meed, no Doctor can withstand.
V. 72. The Flayer of the Skin.
Ye're all unanimous about the Fee.
About each Symptom how they disagree,
V. 80. Think on the Meed that tickles fweet your Hand,
The glittring Mạed, no Doctor can withstand.
To corroborate the Truth of this Maxim, we shall take the Liberty of setting down the two fol. lowing short Stories, by Way of Illustration. The `Z a
Like to the Cur in Ælop's Tale display'd, « Ye quit the Substance, and embrace the Shadé. + Licentiato Licence has—to kill:
Can Socio boast a greater Pow'r, or Skill? 85 "Wiile ye dispute, and quarrel for a Word, • Behold! your Patients are to Health restor’d.
NO TE S. Circumstances required the Stile of the Narration to be more familiar than would suit with the Dignity of the Rest of the Poem, to have them interwoven in the Body of it.
A Doctor once (vo Matter whence I ween, From Oxforil, Leyden, Cam, or Aberdeen;) Was call'd to visit one with utmost Speed; But, when he came, behold! the Patient's dead. What! dead? Yes, Doctor,-dead, but here's
your Fee'"Oh, very well:-'tis all the fame to me.?
A Doctor once (O tell it not in Bath, Left Doctor Somebody be much in Wrath,) Soon as he saw the sick Man, shook his Head, No Pulse--no Breath-the Man in short was dead. Now as our Doctor kept his filent Stand, The tempting Shiner in the dead Man's Hand He faw, he iouch'd-and seizing, ""Tis for me,' He cried, and took his Farewell,—and the Fee.
V. 87. Behold! your Patients are to Health restor’d.
It is very remarkable, that the * Decrease of Burials within the Bills of Mortality for the Year 1767, is no less than 1299, owing (it may perhaps be suppoícil) to the Physicians having been so much taken up with Squabbles among themselves. : * See the General Bil of Migrtality, set forth by the Parish Clerks, from Decen:ber 15, 1766, to Decemler 15, 1767.
. . Ye "Ye three-tail'd Sages, cease your Disputation,
Be Friends, and social join in Consultation ; • Each shake his loaded Noddle with the other, 90 ( And Brother gravely smell his Cane with Brother.'
He ended, and forthwith to Sight appears A Car triumphal in the Form of Hearle: Six coal-black Steeds • drag’d its slow Length along,' Deaf to Aight, Aight, and heedless of the Thong. 95 These with dull Pace th’infernal Monarch drew, (Laid fiat upon his Back, and hid from View,) In awful Pomp, flow, folemn, fad, and still, Thro’ Warwick-Lane, and on, (down Ludgate-Hill,) To the Fleet-Market,—whose stupendous Ditch 100 A lazy Current rolls, as black as Pitch; From whence a Passage, dismal, dark, and dank, Leads underneath to Acheron's gloomy Bank. Twelve sable Imps the Vehicle surround, And with lethiferous Nightshade strew the Ground:
105 N O T E S.
V.90. Each fhake his loaded Noddle with the cther,
And Brother gravely smell his Cane with Brother. An Imitation of the following Lines; One Fool lolls his Tongue out at another, And shakes his empty Noddle at his Brother. V.94. Six coal-black Steeds drag'd its slow Length
along, A needless Alexandrine ends the Song, And like a wounded Snake, drag'd its slow
• Length along. * V.95. Deaf to Aight, Aight, and heedless to the Thong.
Aight, Aight-an Expression in the Huynhym Language, made Use of by Coachmen, &c. in speaking to the Horses, fignifying, Go on.
A strong Perfume, as in his Car he rode, 106
Their Feuds forgot, the Doctors, with Amaze
Of Affa Foetida praclaim'd the God.
Ŝ H A K ES P E A RE:
THANKS to much Industry and Pains,
1 Much Twisting of the Wit and Brains;
No more shall Taste presume to speak,
Critic, I hear thy Torrent rage,
Stamp'd with the Signet of Periection.
Perfection's but a Word ideal,