The Newcastle Apothecary.

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 sculapian 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?     Can'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 in't,     That his prescriptions he resolve'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.     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 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."     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."