Page:The dispensary - a poem in six canto's (sic) (IA b30356775).pdf/67

 His Sire's pretended pious Steps he treads, And where the Doctor fails the Saint succeeds. A Conventicle flesh'd his greener Years, And his full Age the righteous Rancour shares. Thus Boys hatch Game-Eggs under Birds o'Prey, To make the Fowl more furious for the Fray.

Slow Carus next discover'd his Intent, With painful Pauses mutt'ring what he meant. His Sparks of Life in spight of Druggs retreat, So cold, that only Calentures can heat. In his chill Veins the sluggish Puddle flows, And loads with lazy Fogs his sable Brows. Legions of Lunaticks about him press, His Province is lost Reason to redress. So when Perfumes their fragrant Scent give o'er, Nought can their Odour, like a Jakes, restore. When, for Advice the Vulgar throng, he's found With lumber of vile Books besieg'd around. The gazing Throng acknowledge their Surprize, And deaf to Reason still consult their Eyes. Well he perceives the World will often find, To catch the Eye is to convince the Mind. Thus a weak State, by wise Distrust enclines To num'rous Stores, and Strength in Magazines. So Fools are always most profuse of Words, And Cowards never fail of longest Swords. Abandon'd Authors here a Refuge meet, And from the World, to Dust and Worms retreat. Here Dregs and Sediment of Auctions reign, Refuse of Fairs, and Gleanings of Duck-Lane. And