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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.

I

A member of this Esculapian line,
Lived at Newcastle upon Tyne:
No man could better gild a pill;
Or make a bill;

Or mix a draught, or bleed, a 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 balanc'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 called 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?
Can't men have taste who cure a phthysick?

Of poetry tho' Patron-God,

Apollo patronises physick.

Bolus lov'd verse; and took so much delight in't, That his prescriptions he resolv'd to write in'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.

R

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 arriv'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 saidJohn 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 won'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."

THREE BLACK CROWS.

BYROM.

TWO honest tradesmen, meeting in the Strand,
One took the other, briskly, by the hand;
Hark-ye, said he, 'tis an odd story this
About the crows!—I don't know what it is,
Reply'd his friend-No! I'm surpriz'd at that;
Where I come from it is the common chat:
But you

shall hear; an odd affair indeed!
And that it happen'd, they are all agreed.
Not to detain you from a thing so strange,
A gentleman, that lives not far from 'Change,
This week, in short, as all the alley knows,
Taking a puke, has thrown up three black crows.

Impossible-Nay, but 'tis really true;

I have it from good hands, and so may you→

From whose, I pray-So having nam'd the man,
Straight to enquire his curious comrade ran.
Sir, did you tell-relating the affair-

Yes, Sir, I did; and if 'tis worth your care,
Ask Mr., such-a-one, he told it me,

But, by the bye, 'twas two black crows, not three.

Resolv'd to trace so wondrous an event,
Whip to the third the virtuoso went.
Sir-and so forth-Why yes; the thing is fact,
Tho', in regard to number, not exact;
It was not two black crows, 'twas only one,
The truth of that you may depend upon;
The gentleman himself told me the case-
Where may I find him?-Why, in such a place.

Away goes he, and having found him out,
Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt-
Then to his last informant he referr'd,
And begg'd to know, if true what he had heard:
Did you, Sir, throw up a black crow ?-Not I-
Bless me! how people propagate a lie!

Black crows have been thrown up, three, two, and one;
And here I find all comes at last to none !

Did you say nothing of a crow at all?
Crow-crow-perhaps I might; now I recall
The matter over. And, pray, Sir, what was't?---
Why I was horrid sick, and, at the last,
I did throw up, and told my neighbour so,
Something that was-as black, Sir, as a crow.

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