While you the Sick to Health restore,
Like your Hippocrates of yore,
On Thames 's Banks I court the Muse ,
Blest, when her Aid she don't refuse,
And, careless, no Ambition prove,
But humbly thus to Sing , and Love ;
Not wishing , what I can't possess ;
Content, cou'd Fortune give me less,
So I your Friendship still may share,
And fancy Cloi true , and fair .
When I my artless Lays impart,
You show your Candour , and your Heart ,
To all my Errors just ; but kind ;
Rather to Praise , than blame inclin'd;
Indulgent, tender; yet sincere:
I need a Critick more severe .
Lay by the palliating Friend;
I only ask Advice , to mend .
Say, am I truly now inspir'd,
Or with delusive Ardour fir'd?
Hid from my self, I want your Light ;
'Tis you, my Friend , must set me right;
Resign'd before my Judge I stand,
And wait Correction from your Hand.
The God of Med'cine , we are told,
Apollo 's skillful Son , of old
Wrought Wonders ; but with all his Art ,
He only reach'd the mortal Part:
Your Talents are not so confin'd;
Phaebus his Pow'rs in you has join'd :
You make th' afflicted Body Whole ;
You can inform the Poet's Soul .