Who safe shall stand behind his back. BOWER,[160] the third, not least in fame, Though last the Muse records his name; Where's the attorney that can wear Cockade with a more graceful air? See how the maids' and widows' glances Centre in him, as he advances. Tho' with his manly beauteous face He captivates each wishing lass, Heedless he slights her painted charms, Nothing his heart but glory warms, Nor stickles[161] he for filthy riches From scouring drains or emptying ditches, Nor hates the pope and all his power More firmly does his namesake Bower.[162] Of surgeons next a valiant pair Practised in blood and wounds appear. Or say we shou'd their titles vary And call each an apothecary. As both they're fam'd for equal skill, Licenc'd as both to cure or kill. To specify each doughty wight, This MIDDLETON, that FARRER[163] hight, But when invasion or rebelling Shall call them from their peaceful dwelling, From gun-shot wounds good heav'n defend 'em! And to their shops back quickly send 'em. For, when they're absent, who shall draw A rotten stump from aching jaw? Who can from cholic pains relieve us? Who purges or who clysters give us? When fevers burn and agues shake us, Who then shall febrifuges make us? And when the itch invades each joint, With brimstone who so well anoint? If either pox should then assail us, Who have we left then can avail us? Who then will with a grave oration Prognosticate a suppuration? Or, when it comes, can right discuss The laudability of pus? Who then luxations shall reduce? Who bathrum, or who vectis use? And who the poor deluded maid With hand obstetric timely aid? That hand devoted to oppose Great GEORGE'S[164] and his country's foes? For there's no man, I'm sure, in all The town, can shake an urinal, Or know, like them, by Galen's rules, The consequence of fetid stools. Think not physicians I despise, Doctors indeed I duly prize; Doctors so call'd are those I drive at, Their ignorance I can't connive at. Kind reader pardon this digression, And I will shorten the procession. But say, what youth is he that follows? Oh! he's a favourite of Apollo's, Who, for our good, in time of need, Forsakes his fav'rite Muse and reed; And boldly owning Britain's quarrels, Tho' crown'd with bays will gather laurels. Say, MILLER,[165] why did'st thou supplant Me of that fame I so much want? Had'st thou not wrote I might have worn Those laurels which thy head adorn. Say, dost thou not thy castor grace With a cockade as well as lace? Adorn thy active feet so curious With buckles set with diamonds spurious? And by Euterpe's influence With flute traverse[166] pick up the pence? Have you not for the fall of France Now introduc'd the Pyrrhic dance, Which e'en our girls to arms will train, And make them fight like modern men? Nay, in York News most fairly worded