Classic Poem

A Humourous friend of the physical tribe ,
For a funeral sermon , a Parson would bribe;
Talk'd of G LOVES , and of S CARFS , and of R INGS , and a W ILL ,
In which he should find a reward for his skill.
So my domine doctor , says he, when I die,
Get into your tub , and say something that's high .
To be high , quoth the priest, on a subject so low ,
Is a difficult task, brother doctor , you know,
Of a creature so odd , O what can I say,
Or how earn what I want , and you proffer to pay:
Where, Sir, is your merit, good nature, or grace,
Or for what are you known but for playing a FACE .
You've letters , 'tis true, and the honours possess,
Of L. M. or M. D. or perhaps F. R. S.
But what are all these for a pulpit oration ,
Which after you're gone may travel the nation.
There a few but that a trifle will scruple to pay,
To see what of you , I could possibly say?
Think then my vain doctor no more of this matter ,
Unmerited praise is the keenest of Satyr ,
Nor force me to rail , nor tempt me to flatter .