Classic Poem

See th' man of Recipees how his Cloak is lin'd!
Sure th' insides rich, where we such linings finde.
Can strut, nod gravely, with an ominous look,
Like Mahomet when from th' Dove he Counsel took,
Consults with his Mustachio's 'fore he's heard;
Surely he strokes his wisdome from his beard.
Your liver's foul, and stomach, pains ith' heart,
We Cardialgia call it men of art.
Your spirits natural; vital, animal be,
And I'me afraid, not from obstructions free.
Would of erratique griefs you causes know?
The head's the fountain, whence these streams do flow.
Your livers hot, cold stomach, thence to the brain,
Vapors arise in Clouds, showre back again.
You are hydroptick, nay, Cachectick too,
I strangely fear a discrasy in you.
Oh, oh my heart, my heart doth down retreat
Their monstrous purges you (learn'd sir) repeat.
They Panchymagogi , and Catholicons be;
And Diaphaenicon th' rare Electuarie.
These are your purges man; the Bezar stone,
Brave Cordial, unto all but me unknown.
Have you a pain ith' stomach? yes, back and head?
Lord Master Doctor where have you this read?
Ith' urine man; by this I ev'n can know
Each step, and stair by which to bed you go.
Pisse takes the form of parts as it runs through,
I could no better know, was I in you.
Hence looking-glasses, Chamberpots we call,
'Cause in your pisse we can discover all.
Why this no lesse then Aarons brestplate is,
The Seminalities of all ills in pisse:
To trust in this the College doth forbid,
Vile men would prelate-like have knowledge hid.
I never durst approach the Colledg near,
They Bishop-like do place an Image there.
Their Idol- Harvy of the Serpents breed.
To break his head denys the woman seed.
We're wonderfully made the Scripture saies,
Yet this wretch how we're made would show the waies;
Nay, Conjurer-like makes Circling in the blood,
I know not why, but sure it can't be good.
What spirit 'tis he trades with is unknown
Distinct from blood he will no spirits own.
Out of five senses too he would perswade
He need adde more, your senses are decaid:
And th' world doth senses want to see deceit,
Both out of money and of life to cheat.
All like the frog to physick will pretend,
Would others cure can't their own croaking mend.