Now expectation hushed the band,
When thus the monarch from the throne:
Merit was ever modest known—
What! no physician speak his right!
None here? But fees their toils requite.
Let then Intemperance take the wand,
Who fills with gold their jealous hand.
You, Fever, Gout, and all the rest
(Whom wary men as foes detest)
Forego your claim. No more pretend—