Classic Poem

This puzzles quite the Æsculapian Tribe
 Who, where there are no Fees, can have no wit
And make them helpless Med'cines still provide,
 Both for the sick, and poor alike unfit.
For inward griefs all that they do prepare
Nothing but Crumbs, and Fragments are,
And outwardly apply no more
But sordid Rags unto the sore.
Thus Poverty is drest, and Dose't
With little Art, and little Cost,
As if poor Rem'dies for the Poor were fit
When Poverty in such a place doth sit,
That 'tis the grand Projection only that must conquer