“To bleed or not to bleed — that is the question! Whether‘ tis better in our beds to suffer The slights and snufflings of outrageous doctors, Or by the Lancet — quit them.”
In ancient days divines, in dismal humour, With disputation kept the presses going; Wrangled about some wonderous mighty things The difference “‘ twixt a shadow and a shade,”
And scribbled much of “way of man with maid.” At length, as fades the crown Their bludgeons they lay down; And you, wise doctors, take the wrangle up,
Each cursing all who will not drink his cup. Ah, Philadelphians! still to knaves a prey, Take your old philosophic way; When from the native spring you seiz'd your draught,
Health bloom'd on every face, and all was gay — Dejection was remote — and Nature laugh'd. A question now, of mighty weight is put, Whether, to bleed a man is best, or not,
When scarce three drops ( or not one drop ) remains In the poor devil's veins!— Well! you decide, who are in Galen read — Take Boorhaave's, if you please — whatever system —
( Why are men such that doctors can enlist‘ em? ) Whether your methods be the right or wrong, And man's existence shorten or prolong, We feverish fellows, must be — put to bed.
The secret has leak'd out — be cautious doctors ( The whole shall be disclos'd in room with lock'd doors ) Old women, with their simple herbs and teas ( And asking hardly two-pence for their fees )
Disarm this dreadful epidemic fever; Make it as tame and innocent, ( Whether home-bred or from West Indies sent ) As Continental soldier, turn'd to Weaver.
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