"What writings? whose?" says TOM--raking the cinders. "Many," cried WILL:--"For instance,--PETER PINDAR'S." "What! call you his a knack?"--"Yes;--mind his measure, In _that_ lies half the _point_ that gives us pleasure." "Pooh!--'tisn't that," DICK cried-- "_That_ has been tried, Over and over:--Bless your souls! 'Tis seen in _Crazy Tales_, and twenty things beside: His measure is as old as Poles." "Granted," cries WILL: "I know I'm speaking treason: For PETER, With many a joke, and queer conceit, doth season His metre: "And this I'll say of PETER, to his face, As 'twas, time past, of Vanbrugh writ-- PETER has often wanted _grace_, But he has never wanted _wit_. "Yet I will tell you a plain tale, And see how far quaint measure will prevail:" [Illustration] THE NEWCASTLE APOTHECARY. A MAN, in many a country town, we know, Professes openly with death to wrestle; Ent'ring the field against the grimly foe, Arm'd with a mortar and a pestle. Yet, some affirm, no enemies they are; But meet just like prize-fighters, in a Fair, Who first shake hands before they box, Then give each other plaguy knocks, With all the love and kindness of a brother: So (many a suff'ring Patient saith) Tho' the Apothecary fights with Death, Still they're sworn friends to one another. A member of this AEsculapian line, Lived at Newcastle upon Tyne: No man could better gild a pill: Or make a bill; Or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister; Or draw a tooth out of your head; Or chatter scandal by your bed; Or give a clyster. Of occupations these were _quantum suff._: Yet, still, he thought the list not long enough; And therefore Midwifery he chose to pin to't. This balance'd things:--for if he hurl'd A few score mortals from the world, He made amends by bringing others into't. His fame full six miles round the country ran; In short, in reputation he was _solus_: All the old women call'd him "a fine man!" His name was Bolus. Benjamin Bolus, tho' in _trade_, (Which oftentimes will Genius fetter) Read works of fancy, it is said; And cultivated the _Belles Lettres_. And why should this be thought so odd? Can't men have taste who cure a phthysic; Of Poetry tho' Patron-God, Apollo patronises physick. Bolus love'd verse;--and took so much delight in't, That his prescriptions he resolve'd to write in't. No opportunity he e'er let pass Of writing the directions, on his labels, In dapper couplets,--like _Gay's Fables_; Or, rather, like the lines in _Hudibras_. Apothecary's verse!--and where's the treason? 'Tis simply honest dealing:--not a crime;-- When patients swallow physick without reason, It is but fair to give a little rhyme.