If Ephraim on his bed complains Of feverish pulse and boiling veins, And throbs and pulses in his brains, Then round him flock a ghastly crew
Of doctors old and doctors new, And doctors, some — the Lord knows who. Hoping the men had learned their trade, Poor Ephraim begs them for their aid,
And promises they shall be paid. Each quotes some book, by way of sham, Or reads some text from Sydenham, Which some approve, and some condemn.
At once he hears a barbarous noise, Like that from herds of butchers’ boys, That ever hope of life destroys. He promises all bills to pay,
But they proceed in angry fray — Poor Ephraim frets — and well he may. Each looks at each with vengeful eyes, As if contending for a prize
He wants his share — when Ephraim dies. One talks of cure by Calomel; But his wise brother, Sydrophel, Swears,‘ tis the readiest way to hell.
While one the lancet recommends, Another for a blister sends, And each his every cure defends. Weary of all they have to say,
At last the patient faints away: Poor Ephraim swoons — and well he may. In Fancy's dreams, he thinks he roams In realms where doctor Satan foams,
With Sydrophels and Curry-combs. Revived at length, he begs release, And whines, “Do let your quarrels cease, Do, doctors, let me die in peace.
“Oh! had I sent for doctress Nan, Or anything but cruel man, To put me on my legs again: “She, with her cooling tamarind tea,
At least would not have murdered me — Come! if you love me, do agree. “She would have held my dizzy head — She would have something to me read —
Or would have somewhat cheering said. “Good heavens! you cannot all be right — O do not scratch!— O do not bite!— Good doctors, do not, do not fight!” —
Here they began a louder fray — Oh! Ephraim's dead!— to them all play — Poor Ephraim dies!— and well he may.
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