Of that no more, the patient's name
Was Woodlands, known in rural fame:
Through early years, a sportsman he,
The flower of hunting chivalry;
Was rich, and as he well was able,
Saw jovial sportsmen round his table,
Drank hard and lov'd the evening glee,
With those who drank as hard as he.
But gout, with other ills came on,
And jovial life was pass'd and gone:
Health's active season now was o'er,
When he could hunt and feast no more.
He sold his hounds and took a wife,
To soothe the latter years of life;
But they were few, as we shall see,
In spite of care and Quackery.
She was a Belle of rural fame,
Who gave her troth and bore his name:
Whate'er had been her hopes and views
When she did an old husband chuse,
The knowledge we do not profess,
But leave the gen'rous mind to guess.
At all events, her outward mien,
As it should be had always been,
Nor had a jealous eye suspected
Her duty had been e'er neglected. |
But as infirm he now was grown,
At her desire, he came to town
To seek Physicians of renown. | } |
He first had one, he then had two,
But their prescriptions did not do;
When still her care prevail'd, and she
Another sought, so he had three;
And no more good seem'd to be done,
Than if he had been seen by none.
—Thus matters stood, nay he grew worse
When an old busy, chattering nurse,
Talk'd of the cures, almost divine,
Of our friend Doctor Anodyne.
The drowning catch at any reed,
And all is help in desp'rate need:
Thus the rich man propos'd to try
The boasted aid of Quackery,
And what he wish'd, Amelia said,
With anxious smile, must be obey'd.
—Thus then it is, as we have seen,
Quæ Genus has the attendant been;
But now we are about to see
What a snug Proteus he can be. |
| |
The Lady, to his great surprise,
Oft view'd him with enquiring eyes,
And did a kind attention show
Which he thought queer she should bestow,
But he soon found the matter out;
Madam herself clear'd up the doubt,
As, in her Boudoir's still recess,
She did her quiet thoughts express.
In a soft, pleasant tone she spoke,
As half in earnest half in joke;
But as she thus her mind unveil'd,
It might be seen what thought prevail'd. |
"There's something in your air and face
That tells me you will not disgrace
The trust which I now wish to place | } |
In your obedience to my will;
And if you do that trust fulfil,
If you act up to my intent,
Quæ Genus never shall repent."
—His fingers on his lips he press'd,
He clos'd his hands upon his breast;
With most submissive air he bow'd,
And secresy he swore and vow'd;
When Madam Woodlands thus proceeded:
(I scarce need add that she succeeded.)
"You do a Doctor's business ply;
Now do not stare,—for so do I:
There is a pale-fac'd patient too
Whose certain cure I have in view,
And I've a med'cine that will prove
Specific,—as he's sick of love;
It will, in time, set all at ease,
And cure the pangs of his disease;
For no prescription can be better
Than that contain'd within this letter,
Which you, my friend, must understand
To give into the patient's hand.
Believe me too, when you are told,
You'll find it worth its weight in gold.
—There is," she said, "a smile I see
Now stealing on your gravity;
But know, Quæ Genus I do nought
That is with base dishonour fraught;
My whims, though secret, common-sense
Will clothe in garb of innocence."—
In short, but not without a fee,
He took the balmy recipe,
And ev'ry time he bore a letter
The patient's case was growing better. |
| |
Thus fortune kindly did bestow
Two strings to our keen Hero's bow;
And to his wishes, in good troth,
He reap'd no common gains from both.
—But here, another lucky hour
Did on his hopes new promise pour:
For Madam Woodlands more than hinted,
If, in his present projects stinted,
He should no longer wish to shine
With Quackery and Anodyne,
He might, by her all-fav'ring grace,
Attain her household's highest place.
He saw, and not by way of whim,
This was the very place for him;
But still he felt he could not quit,
As in a momentary fit,
That state he to the Doctor ow'd,
And which such benefit bestow'd;
Then, without proper warning, leave him,
Or with some scurvy tale deceive him,
He saw in any point of view
That honour prompts, it would not do.
Thus, in a state of constant doubt,
He scarce knew what he was about,
And to the daily patients gave
Their med'cines just as chance would have. |
To all diseases waiting there
He did not e'en appear to care
What was the complaint or where, | } |
If it was fever or the gout;
But left each dose to find it out.
—Thus strange indeed, but it appear'd
The healing shop would soon be clear'd, |
The patients calmly pass'd away;
Nay, some of them were rather gay,
And fees forsook th' impoverish'd day. | } |
When this change our Quæ Genus saw,
He thought awhile and felt an awe,
When it struck sudden on his sense,
That his so wicked negligence,
Had caus'd, perhaps, the final doom
Of many an inmate of the room;
But, on a fearful search, he found,
Not one of them was under ground,
Nay, that by giving med'cines wrong,
He did their precious lives prolong;
At least no harm they had endur'd,
For by his blund'ring they were cur'd.
Shrewd Anodyne, of course, suspected
That his prime bus'ness was neglected;
Indeed he clearly understood
Quæ Genus did more harm than good,
And therefore, without much delay,
Hinted in a good-humour'd way,
"You're tir'd, my friend, as it appears,
(Of which I've sometime had my fears)
You're tir'd of the Galenic Art;
'Twere better, therefore, that we part."
Quæ Genus made a calm reply,
With acquiescing modesty:
Nor was a harsh, unpleasant word
From these dissolving Doctors, heard.
In truth, each party was good-hearted;
So they shook hands and thus they parted. |