A MAN, in many a country town, we know, Professes openly with death to wrestle; Ent'ring the field against the grimly foe, Arm'd with a mortar and a pestle.
Yet, some affirm, no enemies they are; But meet just like prize-fighters, in a Fair, Who first shake hands before they box, Then give each other plaguy knocks,
With all the love and kindness of a brother: So ( many a suff'ring Patient saith ) Tho’ the Apothecary fights with Death, Still they're sworn friends to one another.
A member of this Æsculapian line, Lived at Newcastle upon Tyne: No man could better gild a pill: Or make a bill;
Or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister; Or draw a tooth out of your head; Or chatter scandal by your bed; Or give a clyster.
Of occupations these were quantum suff.: Yet, still, he thought the list not long enough; And therefore Midwifery he chose to pin to't. This balance'd things:— for if he hurl'd
A few score mortals from the world, He made amends by bringing others into't. His fame full six miles round the country ran; In short, in reputation he was solus:
All the old women call'd him “a fine man!” His name was Bolus. Benjamin Bolus, tho’ in trade, ( Which oftentimes will Genius fetter )
Read works of fancy, it is said; And cultivated the Belles Lettres. And why should this be thought so odd? Ca n't men have taste who cure a phthysic;
Of Poetry tho’ Patron-God, Apollo patronises physick. Bolus love'd verse;— and took so much delight i n't, That his prescriptions he resolve'd to write i n't.
No opportunity he e'er let pass Of writing the directions, on his labels, In dapper couplets,— like Gay's Fables; Or, rather, like the lines in Hudibras.
Apothecary's verse!— and where's the treason? ‘ Tis simply honest dealing:— not a crime;— When patients swallow physick without reason, It is but fair to give a little rhyme.
He had a Patient lying at death's door, Some three miles from the town,— it might be four; To whom, one evening, Bolus sent an article, In Pharmacy, that's call'd cathartical.
And, on the label of the stuff, He wrote this verse; Which, one would think, was clear enough, And terse:—
“When taken, To be well shaken.” Next morning, early, Bolus rose; And to the Patient's house he goes;—
Upon his pad, Who a vile trick of stumbling had: It was, indeed, a very sorry hack; But that's of course:
For what's expected from a horse With an Apothecary on his back? Bolus arrive'd; and gave a doubtful tap;— Between a single and a double rap.—
Knocks of this kind Are given by Gentlemen who teach to dance: By Fiddlers, and by Opera-singers: One loud, and then a little one behind;
As if the knocker fell, by chance, Out of their fingers. The Servant lets him in, with dismal face, Long as a courtier's out of place —
Portending some disaster; John's countenance as rueful look'd, and grim, As if th’ Apothecary had physick'd him,— And not his master.
“Well, how's the Patient?” Bolus said:— John shook his head. “Indeed!— hum! ha!— that's very odd! He took the draught?” — John gave a nod.
“Well,— how?— what then?— speak out, you dunce!” “Why then” — says John — “we shook him once.” “Shook him!— how?” — Bolus stammer'd out: “We jolted him about.”
“Zounds! Shake a Patient, man!— a shake wo n't do.” “No, Sir,— and so we gave him two.” “Two shakes! od's curse! ‘ Twould make the Patient worse.”
“It did so, Sir!— and so a third we tried.” “Well, and what then?” — “then, Sir, my master died.” Ere WILL had done‘ twas waxing wond'rous late; And reeling Bucks the streets began to scour;
While guardian Watchmen, with a tottering gait, Cried every thing, quite clear, except the hour. “Another pot,” says TOM, “and then, A Song;— and so good night, good Gentlemen!
“I've Lyricks, such as Bons Vivants indite, In which your bibbers of Champagne delight,— The Poetaster, bawling them in clubs, Obtains a miserably noted name;
And every noisy Bacchanalian dubs The Singing-Writer with a bastard Fame.”
Cookies on Poetry Cove