Ah, Philadelphians! still to knaves a prey, Take your old philosophic way; When from the native spring you seiz'd your draught, Health bloom'd on every face, and all was gay-- Dejection was remote--and Nature laugh'd. A question now, of mighty weight is put, Whether, to bleed a man is best, or not, When scarce three drops (or not one drop) remains In the poor devil's veins!-- Well! you decide, who are in Galen read-- Take Boorhaave's, if you please--whatever system-- (Why are men such that doctors can enlist 'em?) Whether your methods be the right or wrong, And man's existence shorten or prolong, We feverish fellows, must be--put to bed. The secret has leak'd out--be cautious doctors (The whole shall be disclos'd in room with lock'd doors) Old women, with their simple herbs and teas (And asking hardly two-pence for their fees) Disarm this dreadful epidemic fever; Make it as tame and innocent, (Whether home-bred or from West Indies sent) As Continental soldier, turn'd to Weaver. ODE XII[142] THE CROWS AND THE CARRION A Medical Story If Ephraim on his bed complains Of feverish pulse and boiling veins, And throbs and pulses in his brains, Then round him flock a ghastly crew Of doctors old and doctors new, And doctors, some--the Lord knows who. Hoping the men had learned their trade, Poor Ephraim begs them for their aid, And promises they shall be paid. Each quotes some book, by way of sham, Or reads some text from Sydenham, Which some approve, and some condemn. At once he hears a barbarous noise, Like that from herds of butchers' boys, That ever hope of life destroys. He promises all bills to pay, But they proceed in angry fray-- Poor Ephraim frets--and well he may. Each looks at each with vengeful eyes, As if contending for a prize He wants his share--when Ephraim dies. One talks of cure by Calomel; But his wise brother, Sydrophel, Swears, 'tis the readiest way to hell. While one the lancet recommends, Another for a blister sends, And each his every cure defends. Weary of all they have to say, At last the patient faints away: Poor Ephraim swoons--and well he may. In Fancy's dreams, he thinks he roams In realms where doctor Satan foams, With Sydrophels and Curry-combs. Revived at length, he begs release, And whines, "Do let your quarrels cease, Do, doctors, let me die in peace. "Oh! had I sent for doctress Nan, Or anything but cruel man, To put me on my legs again: "She, with her cooling tamarind tea, At least would not have murdered me-- Come! if you love me, do agree. "She would have held my dizzy head-- She would have something to me read-- Or would have somewhat cheering said. "Good heavens! you cannot all be right-- O do not scratch!--O do not bite!-- Good doctors, do not, do not fight!"--