The Apothecaries Vindication In Answer to an Abusive Book Entitled The Family Physician and House Apothecary.
NOw
Machiavel's reviv'd, he doth defame
Bodly such who are of an unstain'd Fame:
Bavius and
Maevius, a Quack of one Litter,
Have took a Glister and do foulely squitter.
A Scavenger his dung doth fling abroad,
Bespattering such as pass by in his Road.
Just so a Scribling Quack with his Goose-quill
Men in their good names strive to wound or kill.
The Press is over-prest with fools in print
Where they their envy and their malice mint.
He fomes and fumes, reviling Learned Men,
In Gaul and Vinegar who dips his Pen.
If Housewife Physick would serve the turn,
The Learned Doctors might their Books soon burn,
A Pedlar for his Books may give some pins,
Yet still complain that by them he naught wins.
Phlebotomy is fit, as I can tell;
To bleed his tongue that's set on fire of Hell.
Midsummer Moon is past, Mad-men are pent,
In close dark Rooms, great mischiefs to prevent.
Oh Quack, if yet one shaving of thy Wit
Be left, that
Bedlam thou mayst scape, 'tis fit
To give thee counsel to take Pills,
To purge thy Head, which with
Chymaera's fills.
Let Apothecaries alone, mind thy Quacking Trade,
If I could but on thee thus prevail,
Then I might hope that thou wouldst leave to rail.
Abimelech fighting by a Woman fell,
And Female Empyricks cause many a knell.
Doctors of Physick will keep their renown,
When Quacks and Mountebanks shall be trampl'd down.
Why should this
Momus envy
Artists gains,
Rewards are due to Learned and their pains;
Returns are slow, and many Druggs are lost,
Good Gains are to be allow'd for Charge and Cost.
Forbear, O
Momus, Learned to abuse,
And the
Apothecaries Falsly to accuse.
One foule Disease is seldom or ne'r Cur'd,
If thou hast got it thou'lt not be Indur'd.
Wash first thy Heart, afterwards thy Tongue,
And so thou wilt not do thy Neighbours wrong.
What? from a
Doctor, a
Quack to turn;
His Lying Books the Hang-man soon may burn.
Momus and
Ignoramus joyn together,
Hang choice there is, if you take one of either
Fome at the top, and at the bottom Dreggs;
Such are his Books, which stink like rotten Eggs.
Leave off to Lye, least
Artists take some Pains
To give thee
Hellebore and purge thy Brains.
Thou Lyon-like walks abroad and roars,
But there stands open for thee
Bedlam doors:
I wish thou come not there, but to thy Self
Wiser to be, and not a peevish Elf.
Thus I have paid thee off in thine own Coyn,
None will thee Bail by Wager or Essoyn.
FINIS.