MY friend!  I've heard you often plight your faith,                                                   3
"That few sick-folks go mended from the Bath."
And now I cease to wonder at the thing.
Why! -- the town has ten plagues for ev'ry spring.
Yet what the various names -- let no one ask:                                                     5
For, troth, to count them were an endless task.
First reckon to me, from the weekly bills
The Numbers Ward has cur'd of  all their ills:
That done -- I'll not despair (at least) to guess
The many mischiefs which the Bath distress.                                                      10
         The small-pox lurking here in the ambuscade,
Treach'rously mantled, not to hinder trade;
Yet waving round by stealth her baleful hand,
Busy at dealing slaughter underhand:
An epidemic cold that spreads about                                                                 15
The scarlet Rash, or Quinzeys in the throat:
Shivers in lazy Agues thro' the blood,
Or raging on inflames the sanguine Flood;
Stagnates life's riv'lets in their purple urns;                                                                        4
Chokes in Catarrhs, or fiercely frantick burns:                                                     20
Gath'ring assaults the aching brain with fumes,
Or dank descends in deluges of rheums: --
Such slight contagions I not mean to name;
But pass them, mindless, as by chance they came:
These, not the fix'd diseases of the place,                                                            25
The springs, which cou'd not ward, perhaps, may chase.
         Much greater plagues than these infect Bath-town;
Ills all incurable, as all its own.
The first, mayhap, the least:  a shallow Stream
(Whose oozy floods exhale a sickly stream)                                                        30
Winds sluggish round with its desponding tides,
And in unwholesome fogs the city hides.
Next -- circling Hills, thro' whose wide-yawning Chasm,
Rough, jarring Winds belch down rheumatick Spasms.
Without the walls a marshy Mead: -- within                                                         35
Houses but ill supplied; and Streets ne'er clean.
A trifling Mayor; a squabbling Corporation;
A sharking People, scum of all the Nation.
Five Churches ill repair'd, cold, damp, obscene;
And Bells that stun ye with their endless din.                                                        40
Five wrangling Parsons venerably dull,
To atheism or lethargick quiet lull,
With soothing tenets from the pulpit thrown,
Their Auditory's conscience and their own.
         My muse!  Say next what evils follow these?                                               45
Bath has one Surgeon -- he's the next disease.
Tho' (by the by) my Friend, I'd have you know;
'Tis his Profession only makes him so.
 Pierce is humane, and, tho' a surgeon bred,
Is much to honest to enhance his trade:                                                              50
Deals but against his grain in blood and steel;
And can the pain, he gives to patients, feel.
Not of that base, amphibious Fry of Men,                                                                       5
Whose bare Approach wou'd make a Wound gangrene.
Proof against gold; friend to his species; -- He                                                   55
Hates Mischief's hand, tho' It present a fee.
         Oh! wou'd that canibal, man-mangling Brood
Learn from thee, Pierce, not to delight in blood!
Wou'd they some quarter to a Patient give:
Hack the Dupe's fortune; but his Limbs reprieve!                                               60
Or, if their Rage unglutted with his Store
Must needs be fed on Flesh and drench'd with Gore;
Wou'd they at once his Chests and Life invade,
And, less inhuman, shoot him thro' the Head;
The Must wou'd not disdain the Surgeon's praise,                                              65
But sing their Fury quell'd in grateful Lays.
         But lo a long Procession nigh -- make room:
Five bred Physicians!  Bred to fix our doom.
Sad Evils these for one poor Town to bear:
Five Plagues than Egypt's seven far more severe.                                                70
         Say, florid Florifer, if you can tell:
How many Patients you've dispatch'd to Hell?
Say Harrington of not inferior skill!
How many Church-yards they Prescriptions fill?
Procus has laid his thousands on the Floor;                                                         75
And modest Bostick his ten thousands more.
Big blust'ring Cheyne, not the last in fame,
Tho' the Muse lead up in the rear his Name,
Has sent such Colonies to Pluto's land;
The God was forc'd to beg he'd stop his hand.                                                   80
         So far, however, I've but barely guess'd:
If true, 'tis Prophecy; if not, a Jest.
Tho' surely I should think -- and so wou'd you --
There must be truth in't, if the Proverb's true.
And we've both heard it solemnly propos'd: --                                                    85
"They're the best Doctors who've destroy'd the Most."
Which stand (methinks) to reason to be so:                                                                       6
"Who've done much harm, have much the less to do."
Doctors who've kill'd but Few may do more ill
Than they who've left but Few behind to kill.                                                       90
Now while All share some fatal Legacy
From that Pandora's Box -- the Faculty;
This Comfort still remains amidst our care:
Much the best Five are fall'n to our share.
         What Ills averted by his Care and Art;                                                        95
What strange Distempers cur'd, reliev'd what Smart:
How many rescued from the Gates of Hell:
Tho' hiss'd half in by Parson, Clerk, and Bell:
Let such of  Procus tell who Procus know;
Stranger to me, to you I leave him so.                                                                 100
I've heard him prais'd, so hope the Praise his Due,
For unjust Praise is but the Guilt of Few.
         Not so false Censure -- lawless it intrudes --
The Scourge of Many; Crime of Multitudes:
A foul-mouth'd Monster, whose envenom'd Cries                                               105
Intoxicate the giddy World with Lies:
Infect the Villain, but affect the Just;
The Wise-man's Dread, the knavish Idiot's Lust:
A Foe irreconcileable to Fame;
Fed on harsh Discord, Envy, Spleen, and Shame:                                               110
The Soul of Mobs, the Breath of ev'ry slave;
Pointed alone at the 'Hones, Wise, and Brave:
Like the vile Wasp well known to persecute
The fairest Flow'rs, the ripe and soundest Fruit.
         This Cheyne knows, who (spite of all his skill)                                             115
Is said for One he cures a Score to kill:
Alike ill-treated by his Friends and Foes; --
Belied by these, misunderstood by Those.
In vain he toils to teach unruly Man
T'enjoy firm health thro' life's determin'd Span:                                                     120
And shew them how to guard themselves from Ills,                                                              7
By wholesome Exercise and sober Meals:
His senseless patients but misconstrue him,
To stave their health on th' opposite Extreme.
If he forbids to cram, they'll not ev'n chew:                                                          125
If he says "Walk a Mile" they scamper Two.
These exercise themselves quite off their breath;
And They, forsooth, will starve themselves to death.
Thus Sense and Learning may prove fatal Tools;
When trusted to the management of Fools.                                                          130
But where lies Cheyne's Blame?  Say waspish Elves.
Who kills such Dupes? -- The Sage, or They themselves?
         Oh Florifer, of *Tye-wigs justly vain,
And a resistless golden-headed Cane,
Pert Eye, a wanton Leer, a waggish Face,                                                            135
Chas'd Watch, Ring, Ruffles, and a load of Lace!
To chaunt your Praise, in Tinsel dress my Muse;
And make these Numbers, like their Subject, spruce.
Like you inspir'd by Essence then I'll sing
Till each fair Prattler's Ear with Sonnets ring:                                                         140
Till their soft warbling Throats shall catch the Sound,
And back in tingling Ecchoes your Applause rebound.
Your Praise what Female can refuse, who knows
Your Pow'r and Will, to ease her latent Woes?
Who, if you kill, much more inclin'd to save;                                                          145
Warm ten Assemblies e'er you warm one Grave.
But chief of all let fav'rite Partlet say:
(*She whom you doctor many times a Day)
What have you essay'd to ease her Pains?
Witness the Worms which she in Nants retains:                                                     150
The Produce of her Bowels and her Skull,
Pregnant with Maggots always, always full.
Here too Kilmurrey may, with truth, confess;                                                                          8
She fee'd at Bath her Bostick with success:
-- The fair Kilmurrey whose death-ravish'd Charms,                                             155
Sinking half-rifled in the Tyrant's Arms,
The Doctor by main Pow'r of Art restor'd
To her lov'd Husband, to her am'rous Lord.
When other Graduates gave her up to death,
His skill arrested the departing Breath;                                                                  160
Summon'd back Life, dispell'd the sickly Storm;
And from th' Eclipse call'd forth her Angel-form
To shine again in Beauty's splendid Sphere,
England's fair Boast, her sex's brightest Star.
         Who then like Bostick can avert our Ills,                                                      165
Who saves more Lives?  Who deals fewer Pills?
Is there like him who can our Pains relieve;
Cure one Disease and not another give?
         Yes, you (my Harrington!) Can do as much,
Who almost cure, if you our Pulse but touch:                                                         170
No less experience'd in the Art to save
Than your once lov'd, much lamented, Bave,
Lamented, yes -- but mist by us no more,
Since you find means his Vertues to restore;
Heir to his Substance, Merit, Skill, and Sense;                                                     175
As Partner once in his Experience:
Like him well-bred, good-natur'd, modes, free;
Cautious, like him, without timidity;
Slow to prescribe, yet ready to attend;
Not more your Patient's Doctor than his Friend.                                                   180
         Such Bave was once; -- such Harrington we find,
A gen'rous, self-less Lover of Mankind.
Hence judge, my Friend, tho' Doctors are a Pest:
Of all such Plagues our share at Bath is best.
         Nineteen Apothecaries!  Who'd believe,                                                     185
In nineteen Cities shou'd one Life reprieve?
Yet question not what we can prove at Bath;                                                                       9
Life they will spare, where they can sharpen death.
         Of stern Stercorio view the bloated Mien
Where ev'ry Poison of his Shop is seen.                                                               190
His raging Causticks flame upon his Nose;
With drowsy Poppies loaded are his Brows;
His Cheeks puff'd up with Ars'nick, Gaul, and Sloth;
His rabbid Jaws bedew'd with Viper's Froth;
His Features plaster'd o'er with leprous Scales:                                                     195
His Bob in ringlets curl'd like Serpents' Tails.
A broad-brim'd hat, in slouching Order spread,
Defends the formal Changling's empty Head:
Two Cravat-twistings from his Neck depend,
With Snuff and Drugs, and Dirt, and Drivel stain'd.                                                200
         His Shop a nauseous, litter'd Magazine
Of all that is unwholsome and unclean.
        From the low Roof on hempen Lines are hung
Dried Insects, Bladders, and stale Simples strung.
Here Cobwebs dangle from a Crocodile;                                                              205
There Spiders spin from the Prescription-file:
Above on dusty Shelves in less'ning Rows,
Stand empty Gally-pots for idle Shews:
Beneath -- in ranks, gilt-letter'd Draw'rs are seen,
Titled from damag'd Drugs contain'd within:                                                          210
In this Glass-Case a Skeleton is stow'd;
And in that Box lies a dissected Toad.
         Behind his Counter, lo! the Sloven sits,
Mixing a Cordial for Sherbetta's fits.
Round him in foul Confusion scatter'd lie                                                              215
Spread Plaisters, Salves, and Med'cines, wet and dry:
Phials of Waters -- Surfeit, Plague, and Mint:
A Mortar; and already pounded in't
Pearl-powder calcin'd from an Oyster-shell,
Spirits t'infuse, and Whimsies to dispell:                                                                220
A Tincture here to save Mercurio's Nose;                                                                           10
There Coloquintida, Virginia's Dose:
On his side liquid Laudanum appears
To lull Podrago's gouty Pains, and Cares;
On that Chalybeat for Acidia's Case,                                                                   225
To drive her Pallor downward from her Fact.
 With unwash'd Hands each Med'cine he deals out
Pills for within, or Ointments for without:
Patients alike and Preparations blends;
Careless to whom, or what:  -- so he but sends.                                                   230
         Podragro's Laudanum Sherbetta sips:
And undisturb'd by Fits for ever sleeps:
By like mistake the Cordial Draught misplace'd
Virginia drinks, and swells about the Waste:
Acidia's Potion sent, Mercurio takes,                                                                   235
And curses Steel, Lust, Women, and Mistakes.
Virginia's Dose the weak Acidia drinks;
And to its violence unequal, sinks:
Mercurio's Tincture, in large counted Drops,
Podagro takes, to sooth his Gout and Hopes;                                                      240
But vain such Hopes, such Evils to appease:
The Draught but serves to double his Disease.
         These but the' Apothecary's small Mistakes:
Others of a more fatal kind he makes.
What Spasms can equal those a Patient bears,                                                     245
When he to act the Doctor boldly dares!
     Laborio with keen Care consumptive grown,
Lingers, and wants advice from Harrington.
Alas Laborio has no fee to give;
Nor know -- the Doctor gratis will relieve;                                                          250
And that with what he from the Wealthy culls
He sees the Poor, to let him feel their Pulse.
Hence tir'd with Spasm, with Poverty dismay'd,
He calls th' Apothecary to his aid:
And with mix'd Poisons, from the Hydra's Shop,                                                 255         11
Enrages Misery to flatter Hope.
        The gasping Patient gives his Pulse to feel:
The Wizard grasps it with his Hand of Steel:
But frighted Life starts back, at his approach;
And flies the Wrist, to shun his baleful Touch.                                                     260
While ebbing Nature, impotent and low,
Forbids the Blood along the Veins to flow.
Stercorio, true Apothecary, still
Can feel those Veins with raging Fever thrill:
So homeward steers the deadly File to search,                                                    265
Where feather'd Mischief's num'rous Nestlings perch:
Pilf'ring, from ev'ry One, some Woeful Bane;
To feed his Av'rice, and his Patient's Pain.
         "Laborio's fev'rish -- so Sir William was
(Thus to himself the prying Driv'ler says)                                                              270
"When Procus order'd him this cleansing Draught:
"But! Then Sir Will was p--x'd: --It matters not.
"The same Ingredients, with some change, may do:
"What's good for One must needs be good for Two.
"This Gum -- that Powder -- ana Scruples fix                                                     275
"Sage Florifer directed me to mix, --
"To thin her Blood, when Partlet last lay sick:
"And mayn't Laborio's possibly be thick?
"Tho if his Blood be thin, and Spirits low;
"'Twere better still, for this will keep 'em so."                                                     280
         This said, then mutt'ring out a Pray'r to Chance,
With Boldness equal to his Ignorance,
He plies the Man with all his Train of Ills:
Pills succeed Powders, Potions follow Pills;
Till the spent Patient no more Woes can gall;                                                     285
But his Assassin's Bill -- the worst of all:
Which to discount, he bargains to withdraw;
And leave th' Apothecary Heir at Law.
         Such are the Mischiefs by Stercorio done:                                                                12
Yet ah my Friend!  Stercorio is but One,                                                            290
And he a very Treasure if compar'd
To all the rest of that destructive Herd.
A patent Proof of what we all must own
That greater Evils make the less seem none.
Hell were not such, were there a heavier Curse;                                                 295
And he's an Aesculapius, where we've worse.
Twice Nine we have in Town -- all worse than he:
Then judge how rife our Plagues at Bath must be.
         Dread as they are, yet wou'd they ended here!
With chearful Patience we'd our Evils bear.                                                        300
But greater Pests we have of ev'ry kind:
Some to molest the Body, some the Mind.
All which to bear -- wou'd shake a Martyr's Will;
Yet how t' avoid 'em -- passes human skill.
         Insensibility sole Goddess here:                                                               305
She only can asswage those Ills we bear.
In her still Sanctuary All must 'bide,
Who wish to lull the Spasms they can't avoid.
         Nigh were slow Avon's drowsy Naiades sleep
(While many a Nymph and Swain Love's Vigils keep)                                       310
Round a smooth, winding Green-ward; o'er the Flood
Leans a low *Fane  -- and Edifice of Wood:
Whose folding Gates self-opening tot he Sides
Shew the dull Deity who there presides.
 Th' unmov'd Divinity here sits enthron'd:                                                         315
A Wreath of Cowslip binds her Temples round;
A lifeless Smile grins o'er her silly Mien;
And her faint Eyes are stupidly serene:
A leaden Scepter in her Hand she bears,
To sway her Subjects without Pain or Fears.                                                  320
         Here Crowds of Vot'ries ready Entrance find,                                                     13
Sots, Dotards, Idiots, with the Deaf and Blind.
Who almost e'er they ask, the Grant obtain,
To dwell within the City free from Pain.
This easy Goddess lets her Favours flow                                                        325
On all who are hood-wink'd; or wou'd be so:
And to such only will Repose dispense
Who own her Pow'r, and court her Impotence.
Who e'er refuses to admit her Sway
Must quit the Bath, or suffer if he stay.                                                          330
For -- no Place free from Plagues within this Wall:
Her Vot'ries only are exempt from all.
         If to the Pump-room in the Morn we go
To drink the Waters and remove some Woe;
Idle the Project We too late explore;                                                             335
And find:  to move on Plague, We've dar'd a Score.
What Tumult, Hurry, Noise, and Nonsence blend,
T'annoy the Senses, and the Soul t'offend!
What sickly, crude, offensive Vapours there
The Nostrils snuff up with the tainted Air!                                                      340
Whole Groups of Foppish Slovens foully fine
In dirty Shirts, and Tinsel stink and shine;
Midst Crowds of Dames, who in their nightly Trim,
Just reeking from their Beds, still stew and stream:
An ill-bred, restless, wild, and cackling Host,                                                 345
Noisy as Goslings spreading from their Roost.
         Shock'd at the Light and Sound I onward rush
To whence th' up-driven Streams, hot smoaking gush:
Forc'd to wade thro' a Mob of unwash'd Beaus
At the' ill Expence of Elbows and of Cloaths.                                                 350
By patient squeezing to the Pump I get;
There roughly thrust next to some Clown I wait;
Who, when he'as rudely swill'd his Potion up,
Leaves me the slobber'd favour of his Cup.
Glad at all rates t'obtain the healing Draught,                                                  355         14
I take the Glass with all his Drivel Fraught:
The Pumper dips it, fills; and I (*convinc'd,
By the foul Finger-prints, the Glass is rinc'd)
Attempt to drink:  when by my next Fool prest,
The slipping Bicker pours along my Breast.                                                  360
         Urg'd by Despair I plunge into the Bath.
But! -- here still heavier Plagues incense my Wrath.
Nameless Diseases join'd pollute the Stream,
And mix their foul Infections  with its Steam.
Here long e'er Lucifer leads in the Dawn,                                                      365
Each greasy Cook has seeth'd away his Brawn:
And Sweepers from their Chimnies, smear'd with Soot.
Hither have brought, and left behind, their Smut.
Jilts, Porters, Grooms, and Guides, and Chairmen bring
Their sev'ral Ordures to corrupt the Spring.                                                  370
Add to these Nusances the 'wild'ring Noise
Of splashing Swimmers, and of dabbling Boys;
Whose bold, loose, rustick Gestures move my Rage,
Which Celia's Presence scarcely can asswage.
Here Lepra too, and Scabies more unclean                                                  375
Divest their Scurf t'invest a purer Skin:
Whose pealing Scales upon the Surface swim,
Till what th' Unwholesome shed the Wholesome skim.
Nor this the greatest Grievance in the Flood:
The worst I scarcely wish were understood:                                                  380
All (from the Porter to the courtly Nymph)
Pay liquid Tributes to the swelling Lymph.
         What benefit such Mixtures can impart:
To know -- or ev'n to guess -- is past my Art.
This I affirm:  however great it were;                                                             385
To such a Cure I'd ev'ry Plague prefer.
Hence mad and poison'd, from the Bath I fling
With all the Scales and Dirt that round me cling:
Then looking back, I curse that Jakes obscene;                                                          15
Whence I come sullied out who enter'd clean.                                                390
         Freed from this Sink, my Canvas off I throw:
Meaning to throw off, with it, ev'ry Woe.
But ah!  our Chest is not so quickly out:
Plagues of another Sort attend without.
With its peculiar Pest each Sense is curst:                                                      395
And hard to say -- which Sense endures the worst.
         Our Cooks fit only for Lycaon's Feast,
Combine to vitiate and deceive our Taste:
Our Bacchus a meer Harlequin Buffoon,
Patch'd up in tawdry Colours not his own;                                                    400
Waits upon Charlatans who vend for Wine
Mixtures of ev'ry Juice but of the Vine.
Here Elder-berry's prest for Lisbon Grape;
A Norway Rat assumes a Rabbit's Shape;
Horse-flesh turns Ven'son, and a Cat a Hare;                                                405
And None, by seeing, guess their Bill o'fare:
All's an insipid, foul, unwholesome Cheat:
Still widest from what We imagine it.
         What rumbling Clamours in the Welkin clash
T'exhaust our Patience, while our ears they lash!                                            410
Beggars in Shoals (whose joint Permission-fee
May serve for life, to buy the May'ress Tea)
With counterfeited Mis'ry's grating Din,
Stun us alike without-doors or within:
Dogs, howling Chairmen; and the jarring Yells                                                 415
Of Lackeys louder yet than th' Abbey-bells:
And last of Colliers a rude sable Breed
(Whose Brawls and filthy Garb all Terms exceed)
Deafens the Sense, the Pass obstructs, and makes
Of the whole Town a second *Elean Jakes.                                                    420
 These Plagues t'avoid I to the Rooms repair                                                                  16
But slife! What harsher Noise molests me there!
E'er I well enter from the creeking Door,
Bursts forth a hollow, whizzing, uncouth Roar
Such as from Hives sometimes we're wont to hear,                                         425
When with the sickly Bees Drones interfere.
Yet bold I venture in to trace the Source:
Whence can proceed a Din so loud, so hoarse.
When soon a warring Dissonance of Sounds
Twangs on my Ear-drum, and my Brain confounds.                                         430
The Cause I find -- but at the lavish Cost
Of a Sensation in the Tumult lost.
         Here a dull Troop of aged Aufs appears,
Wise only in a length of ill-spent Years;
Who grown, in practis'd Folly obstinate;                                                          435
Exert their Priv'ledge dotingly to prate:
Above Improvement, forward still to teach;
Convinc'd: theirs only is Right of Speech.
There -- chirping Flights of flutt'ring Triflers add,
With Wit's short Superfluities half mad:                                                            440
Hundreds of Dames (who never out of breath,
Wou'd talk an Army, singled out, to death)
At Sense's Cost, divide their Time and hearts
Twixt Fashions, Scandal, Toys, Codrille, and Smarts.
         Trophia a yellow, wrinkled, stale Coquet;                                                445
With Dropsy, Vapours, and grey Hairs beset;
Gawdy as Brides at Church; yet as unclean,
As Wives when only by their Husbands seen;
At Faro flaring in Brocade and Muck,
A sad, sure Omen of our evil Luck,                                                                  450
Fir'd with repeated Potions of *The Same
Sniffles black War against the Absent's Fame;
Snarls at the Present; else with pointless Jokes,                                                              17
Scorn Indignation, or a Blush provokes.
To scape this Ear-wig -- our Lost Gold we quit,                                               455
And ev'n the Magick Prospect of recalling it.
Yet! -- here from Mischief 'tis in vain to run:
We can but change the Woes we wish to shun.
 To fly this Quean -- soon as I quit my Place;
Worse Ills advancing perk me in the Face.                                                        460
Two Brace of Beldams, ugly, old, and Maids;
Chief Spies of Death, and Natives of the Shades;
Like coupled Goblins round th' Assembly rove
To kill with Terror, since they can't with Love.
Craz'd with their shrieking, shrill, censorious Chat;                                             465
Like the last Wawlings of a worried Cat;
About the Rooms I skulk from Seat to Seat:
The tawdry Spectres ev'ry where I meet.
And to fill up the Measure of my Woes,
I'm pester'd on all sides with Crouds of Beaus:                                                 470
Smart Block-heads whose lewd Airs, or lewder Noise
Wildly their Want of Intellects supplies.
         Here rattling Vasro o'er a Die blasphemes,
There Naso loudly whispers smutty Themes,
-- Now in some Virgin's yet untainted Ears,                                                      475
Who blushes not, not knowing what she hears.
-- Now in Pertilla's, who t'approve his Parts
With a loose Laugh invokes the Ace of Hearts.
         What's worse:  to quit the Place if I prepare;
An ill-timed Ticket bids me tarry there.                                                            480
A Ball's propos'd; and I to dance must stay:
A Partner's proffer'd; and the Fidlers play.
Fidlers?  -- 'sheath! -- 'tis not Musick sure I hear;
But Whines of Whelps just pupp'd that lash my Ear.
Lo, to my Grief, the Fiddles and the Fire!                                                        485
And, tho' half-shrunk'd with their brok'n, crazy Strife,
I'm forc'd to scuffle thro' a Crowd of Apes,                                                                   18
Jostling on wildly to the timeless Scrapes.
         Wedg'd in a Country-Dance's tedious Files,
An Elbow-Gantlope I must run at whiles.                                                        490
Here a rude Ruffian totters o'er my Toes,
To wipe his Shoes upon my Partner's Cloaths:
Another there, unheeding her soft Charms,
Whirls Her round Fiercely and disjoints her Arms;
Then turning off salutes me with his Heels;                                                      495
While some rough Blund'rer back upon me reels.
This Hoiden bolts against me with a Trust:
That treading makes, then footing stirs, a Dust.
Spurio that trifling, puny, stiff-glued Elf,
That sole Admirer of his dear sweet Self;                                                        500
On his Fool's Form a close Attention pins,
Too much absorb'd to see and spare our Shins.
         And yet, my Friend, thus restless and unsafe,
I'm forc'd in spite of Pain and Fear, to laugh;
When e'er tow'rds Simio I my Looks covert,                                                  505
And see the Monkey all his Tricks exert:
His awkward Shoulders delving to and for,
With the same Grace as Bakers knead their Dough:
His light Head dodging to and from his feet,
In Shuffles; like a Sawyer o'er his Pit.                                                             510
But ah!  how dear the little Mirth I buy!
While my Ears pay the Pastime of my Eye --
Stun'd with the Clatter of his noisy Heels,
Hobbling like Hammers at the Paper-mills.
         Say -- Dancing can we name such frantick Whims?                               515
'Tis shewing Postures:  'tis distorting Limbs:
'Tis a lewd Riot of capricious Bears:
An ill conducted Hop of Wappineers.
         Think then, if such mad Freaks can give me Sport,
Who hate a Noise or Mob of any Sort:                                                          520
Whose Soul, to Delicacy e'er inclin'd,                                                                           19
Can think no Pleasure such, but when refin'd.
 Tir'd, lame, and bruis'd with the course Exercise,
I long for rest, and watch my Partner's Eyes;
Whose fainting Aspect calls me to her Aid:                                                    525
Strait in my Arms I clasp the beauteous Maid;
Consult her safety; thro' the Riot break;
Hand her safe to her Chair, -- and Congee take.
         I call Another -- but compell'd to stay,
Till growling Chairmen end their fisty Fray,                                                    530
In a bleak Passage, 'midst a Maze of Doors,
Where a pent, blust'ring, piercing Whirl-wind roars;
My Pores dilated with unnat'ral Heat
Catch the damp Mischief, e'er I can retreat.
At length, tho' late, I seize an op'ning Chair,                                                  535
Enrag'd at th' adverse Stars, which led me there.
Coughing and shiv'ring on, tow'rds home I haste,
In hopes thro' favour of the Night to rest.
         Alas how vainly do I seek Repose!
O'er all my Frame a raging Fever glows;                                                         540
A lazy Megrim hovers o'er my Head;
And from my Eyes soft soothing Sleep is fled.
Thus two long Months at Bath I've spent in Pain:
My Time, Expence, and Journey hither vain.
         But oh shou'd gracious Heav'n e'er condescend                                     545
To give me once more back to thee, my Friend!
When I for Health to Bath again return;
May I with such another Fever burn:
Nor ought t'allay th' outrageous Heat, receive;
But what self-tickling Anodyne can give.                                                        550
May Ch--v--rs lodge; L--ds--y by my Nurse:
My Soul  may C--y; W--lt--re guard my Purse:
May I to sleep an utter Stranger be;
Nor Benedetti's voice restore it me:
May dull Lampooners, impudently rash,                                                         555             20
Jesting on truths, my Name and Foibles lash:
May Raffles, Game, and Bertrand's Bawbles drain
The little easy Substance I retain:
May Sense ne'er warn me; till my Fortune's flown;
As Thursday's Mail arrives not, till our *Post is gone.                                   560
         Or if there is in being a heavier Curse:
If Health and Plenty misenjoy'd are worse;
May I be forc'd with Fools to spend my Days;
My Nights, in seeing Strollers murder Plays:
May I be cram'd with butter'd Rolls and Tea,                                                  565
Till Leak and I in choice of books agree:
Till his spruce Mirrours cease t'attract a Fop:
Till ev'ry giddy Owl who haunts his Shop,
Shall, in this Satire, read their Follies o'er;
Repent; grow Wise; and move my Wrath no more.                                         570

_______________________________

*Notes.  These notes were prepared by Robert Lassandrello in ENG 471: Bibliography and Literary Research
 (W'99) at DePaul University, Chicago IL.  The numbers in the far right hand column refer to the page number of the        poem.  To return to the text, click on the link at the start of  each entry.

+Juvenal Quote: Refers to a specific doctor who every autumn regularly killed a number of his patients.  (Bishop, Phillippa “The Sentence of Momus: Satirical Verse and Prints in 18th Century Bath. Bath History Vol. 5, 1994. 54. )
18.  Ague. An intermitting fever, with cold fits succeeded by hot. (A Dictionary of the
English Language, by Samuel Johnson. London, W. Strahan, 1755. AMS Press Inc. New York, 1967.)
35.  Mead. Ground, somewhat watery, not plowed, but covered with grass and flowers.
 (Johnson’s Dictionary)
37.  Corporation. The Bath Corporation was a royally endowed group that had been awarded
“the benefits and use,” of specific land parcels in and around Bath. By the 18th century, there were between 27-30 members of the Corporation including the Mayor, two Justices of the Peace and other public officials. At this time much of public and private life in Bath was under control of the Corporation. (Neale, R.S. Bath 1680-1850: A Social History. London: Rutledge and Kegan Paul, Ltd.: 1981. 175.)
46.  Surgeon. The middle level of the three classes of medical practitioner in 18th century England. Surgeons (who had to serve apprenticeships) treated medical as well as surgical cases. They were one step below physicians and were commonly referred to as Mister. (Claude
E. Jones, notes to Smollett’s “An Essay on the External Use of Water.” Baltimore: Johns Hopkins, 1935. 37.)
49.  Pierce. Jeremiah Pierce (1671-1743), Governor of the Mineral Water Hospital in bath, he remained a senior surgeon there until 1761. (Bishop.77.)
68. Physicians. The top level of medical practitioner in 18th century England, and the only ones addressed as doctor. Physicians were required to take a degree, and were licensed
to treat all types of medical problems. (Jones notes to Smollett essay. 37.)
78. Cheyne. Dr. George Cheyne (1671-1743), A physician who practiced in Bath, but was
well known throughout England for his unorthodox dietary notions involving vegetarianism.(Hinde, Thomas.Tales of the Pump Room. London: Victor Gollancz Ltd., 1987. 82.)
133. *Tye-wigs justly vain.  [Author's note: " See Pope's Rape of the Lock."]
148.  *She whom you doctor many times a Day. [Authors's note:  "Imit. from Dryden."]
185.  Apothecaries. The lowest of the three classes of medical practitioners referred to in the poem.
In the 18th century, apothecaries filled prescriptives, practiced, phlebotomy, and treated venereal cases. (Jones notes to Smollett essay. 37.)
189.  Stercorio. Ostensibly, the name of an apothecary. In all likelihood, this name is a reference to  the Latin word for dung or excrement.  (Bishop. 77.)
225.  Chalybeat. Impregnated with iron or steel. Having the qualities of steel. In this instance as a  spring or mineral water. (Johnson’s Dictionary)
295.  Aesculapious. The Roman God of medicine. (Oxford English Dictionary 2nd ed. 1989.)
312.  *Fane [Author's note: "The Banquetting House in Harrison's Garden."]
357. *convinc'd. [Author's note:  "Imit. see Boileau."]
366. Brawn. Boars flesh. (Johnson’s Dictionary)
376. Scurf. A kind of dry miliary (scaly) scab. (OED)
389.  Jakes. Out-house. (OED)
420.  *Elean Jakes. [Author's note: "The Stables of Augeas, which requir'd the Labour of a Hercules to clean."]
433.  Aufs. A half-wit or simpleton. (OED)
451.  *The Same.  [Author's note:  "A certain divine Nectar frequently administer'd to this Lady by the God of Oblivion:  'This neither like Rum, Brandy, nor Arrack; but pretty much resembles that semi-celestial Liquor; which we inferior Mortals call Gin.  At Bath it is proverbically call's The Same, from this Lady's frequent calling for a Cup of The Same."]
461.  Beldams. An old woman, generally a term of contempt. (Johnson’s Dictionary)
541. Megrim. Disorder of the head. (Johnson’s Dictionary)
550. Anodyne. That which has the power of mitigating pain. (Johnson’s Dictionary)
560.  *Post is gone. [Author's note:  "From Bath the Post sets out every Wednesday Night, for London; and the Letters from London come not in, till the next Morning:  So that every Week one Post is lost.  This Inconvenience is felt, and complain'd of, by all sorts of Persons (at Bath) whose Business requires dispatch:  and therefore may very justly be rank'd among the Diseases of the Place."]