Classic Poem

We souls and bodies Medicasters have,
Both are hereditary, Father fool, Son th' knave.
Th' disease that's known, half cured some do say,
Now not to know't, to cure't 's the ready way,
A fortunate Doctor though he hath no skill,
Wisely can cure, before he knows the ill.
Nay, ev'n his potion knowledge can instil;
Who's cur'd by chance, a recipe gains to kill:
The triple tooth'd Gom with three recipees,
A sacred number can cure each disease.
Looking like the Sceleton stole from Surgeons Hall,
Having there Knowledge gain'd 's Chyrurgical
With Solomons Key, and's Cabal quacks the Jew,
And th' book whose name sure works Nebolahu .
Sputring like th' Country quack with terms of art;
Who by pisse prophecying wonders doth impart.
The words sent th' Syrian King this wretch makes wise,
Another those were spoke in Paradise ;
But oh see Locusts from the infernal pit,
Leech, Falkner, Huntsman, all for murder fit.
'Twixt man and beast there's now no difference made,
To th' bestial part since reason man betrai'd.
Physitians once were Children of the Sun,
Now night, and earth need cover what is done.
Wise Lacedemon would no quacks endure,
Themselves intitling unto natures cure.
A painter convert Leech, said Earth may hide
The faults I now make, th' former were espy'd.
While Italy did to Adrian complain,
Under pretence of help, their friends were slain.
The Pope reply'd, the Land would be too great,
These you devour, least you your selves might eat.
Thus cruelty passing uncontroll'd by Law,
Leeches by purse, and veins the heart blood draw.
Yet all Egyptian -like to Crocodiles pay
Devotion for requital do them slay.