Classic Poem

Or a full and true Account of a certain Apothecary that turn'd Gallant at Sixty Three

Not far from London's wealthy town
A doctor there doth dwell,
Who in the knowledge of close-stools
All others does excel.

A man of mickle might is he,
And wond'rous in his skill,
To make a med'cine for a horse,
Or give a dog a pill.

What pity 'tis so wise a man
Should feeble be and old;
Nay, worse, that he should be in love,
As I, for sooth! am told.

But that so old a man should love
Why need we to admire?
For touchwood, when 'tis rotten grown,
Is soonest set on fire.

And oft we see the aged horse,
When he's of strength bereft,
Tho' all his teeth are gone but one
He has a colt's tooth left.

Thus far'd it with our doctor dear;
O Cupid, 'twas unkind
To strike a dart at sixty three!
But thou wert always blind.

O, had you seen this man in love
You would have laugh'd good store;
For sure since Adam such a wight
Was never seen before.

With gaudy garb o'er wither'd limbs
Our doctor did appear,
Much like an overgrown baboon,
Dress'd up at Southwark Fair.

On old and young, both far and near
His practice now he tries;
And courts full forty at a time,
For twenty won't suffice.

The ladies all blow up the fire,
And swell the empty thing;
They let him prate his bellyfull,
For he has lost his sting.

Haste, emp'rick, haste thee to thy drugs,
Go seek a med'cine there
That may extinguish this fierce flame
E'er midsummer draw near.

Give o'er for shame, 'tis now high time
To think on thy condition.
Go fit thyself for t'other world,
And be thy own physician.