Page:The dispensary - a poem in six canto's (sic) (IA b30356775).pdf/85

 An Oran Outang o'er his Shoulders hung, His Plume confess'd the Capon whence it sprung. His motly Mail scarce cou'd the Heroe bear, Haranguing thus the Tribunes of the War.

Fam'd Chiefs, For present Triumphs born, design'd for more, Your Virtue I admire, your Valour more. If Battel be resolv'd. you'll find this Hand Can deal out Destiny, and Fate command. Our Foes in Throngs shall hide the Crimson Plain, And their Apollo interpose in vain. Tho' Gods themselves engage, a Diamed With Ease cou'd show a Deity can bleed.

But War's rough Trade shou'd be by Fools profest, The truest Rubbish fills a Trench the best. Let Quinsies throttle, and the Quartan shake, Or Dropsies drown, and Gout and Colicks rack; Let Sword and Pestilence lay waste, whilst we Wage bloodless Wars, and fight in Theory. Who wants not Merit needs not arm for Fame; The Dead I raise my Chivalry proclaim, Diseases baffled, and lost Health restor'd, In Fame's bright List my Victories record. More Lives from me their Preservation own, Than Lovers lose if Fair Cornelia frown.

Your Cures, shrill Querpo cry'd, aloud you tell, But wisely your Miscarriages conceal. Zeno