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The Newcastle Apothecary.

by George Colman

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 'sculapian 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.

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:--

"When taken,

To be well shaken."

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 arrive'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 shook 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 two."

"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 streets 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 Bons Vivants 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."