THE NEWCASTLE APOTHECARY by GEORGE COLMAN THE YOUNGER

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 Æsculapian 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 @3quantum suff.:@1
Yet, still, he thought the list not long enough;
And therefore Midwifery he chose to pin to't.
This balanced 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 @3solus:@1
All the old women called him "a fine man!"
His name was Bolus.

Benjamin Bolus, tho' in @3trade,@1
(Which oftentimes will Genius fetter)
Read works of fancy, it is said;
And cultivated the @3Belles Lettres.@1

And why should this be thought so odd?
Can't men have taste who cure a phthysick?
Of Poetry tho' Patron-God,
Apollo patronises Physick.

Bolus loved verse;—and took so much delight in't,
That his prescriptions he resolved to write in't.

No opportunity he e'er let pass
Of writing the directions, on his labels,
In dapper couplets,—like @3Gay's Fables;@1
Or, rather, like the lines in @3Hudibras.@1

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.

He had a Patient lying at death's door,
Some three miles from the town—it might be four;
To whom, one evening, Bolus sent an article,
In Pharmacy, that's call'd cathartical.

And, on the label of the stuff,
He wrote this verse;
Which, one would think, was clear enough
And terse:—

@3"When taken,
"To be well shaken."@1

Next morning, early, Bolus rose;
And to the Patient's house he goes;—
Upon his pad,
Who a vile trick of stumbling had:
It was, indeed, a very sorry hack;
But that's of course:
For what's expected from a horse
With an Apothecary on his back?
Bolus arriv'd; and gave a doubtful tap;—
Between a single and a double rap.—

Knocks of this kind
Are given by Gentlemen who teach to dance;
By Fiddlers, and by Opera-singers:
One loud, and then a little one behind;
As if the knocker fell, by chance,
Out of their fingers.

The Servant lets him in, with dismal face,
Long as a courtier's out of place—
Portending some disaster;
John's countenance as rueful look'd, and grim,
As if th' Apothecary had physick'd him,—
And not his master.

"Well, how's the Patient?" Bolus said—
John shook his head.
"Indeed!—hum! ha!—that's very odd!
"He took the draught?"—John gave a nod.
"Well,—how?—what then?—speak out, you dunce!"
"Why then"—says John—" we @3shook@1 him once."
"Shook him!—how?"—Bolus stammer'd out:—
"We jolted him about."
"Zounds! shake a Patient, man!—a shake won't do."
"No, Sir—and so we gave him @3two.@1"
"Two shakes! od's curse!
"'Twould make the Patient worse."
"It did so, Sir!—and so a third we tried."
"Well, and what then?"—"then, Sir, my master died."

Ere WILL had done 'twas waxing wond'rous late;
And reeling Bucks the street began to scour;
While guardian Watchmen, with a tottering gait,
Cried every thing, quite clear, except the hour.

"Another pot," says TOM, "and then
"A Song;—and so good night, good Gentlemen!

"I've Lyricks, such as @3Bons Vivants@1 indite,
"In which your bibbers of Champagne delight.—
"The Poetaster, bawling them in clubs,
"Obtains a miserably noted name;
"And every noisy Bacchanalian dubs
"The Singing-Writer with a bastard Fame."

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