of it, till I convinced both the patient and his nurse, that the spleen is not to be cured by medicine, but by poetry.  Apollo, the author of physic, shone with diffusive rays the best of poets as well as of physicians; and it is in this double capacity that I have made my way, and have found, sweet, easy, flowering numbers, are oft superior to our noblest medicines.  When the spirits are low, and nature sunk, the muse, with sprightly and harmonious notes, gives an unexpected turn with a grain of poetry, which I prepare without the use of mercury.  I have done wonders in this kind; for the spleen is like the tarantula,[455] the effects of whose malignant poison are to be prevented by no other remedy but the charms of music:  for you are to understand, that as some noxious animals carry antidotes for their own poisons; so there is something equally unaccountable in poetry:  for though it is sometimes a disease, it is to be cured only by itself.  Now I knowing Tom Spindle’s constitution, and that he is not only a pretty gentleman, but also a pretty poet, found the true cause of his distemper was a violent grief that moved his affections too strongly:  for during the late Treaty of Peace, he had written a most excellent poem on that subject; and when he wanted but two lines in the last stanza for finishing the whole piece, there comes news that the French tyrant would not sign.  Spindle in few days took his bed, and had lain there still, had not I been sent for.  I immediately told him, there was great probability the French would now sue to us for peace.  I saw immediately a new life in his eyes; and knew, that nothing could help him forward so well, as hearing verses which he would believe worse than his own; I read him therefore the “Brussels Postscript";[456] after which I recited some heroic lines of my own, which operated so strongly on the tympanum of his ear, that I doubt not but I have kept out all other sounds for a fortnight; and have reason to hope, we shall see him abroad the day before his poem.  This you see, is a particular secret I have found out, viz., that you are not to choose your physician for his knowledge in your distemper, but for having it himself.  Therefore I am at hand for all maladies arising from poetical vapours, beyond which I never pretend.  For being called the other day to one in love, I took indeed their three guineas, and gave them my advice; which was, to send for AEsculapius.[457] AEsculapius, as soon as he saw the patient, cries out, “’Tis love! ’tis love!  Oh! the unequal pulse! these are the symptoms a lover feels; such sighs, such pangs, attend the uneasy mind; nor can our art, or all our boasted skill, avail—­Yet O fair! for thee—­” Thus the sage ran on, and owned the passion which he pitied, as well as that he felt a greater pain than ever he cured.  After which he concluded, “All I can advise, is marriage:  charms and beauty will give new life and vigour, and turn the course of nature to its better prospect.”  This is the new way; and thus AEsculapius has left his beloved powders, and writes a recipe for a wife at sixty.  In short, my friend followed the prescription, and married youth and beauty in its perfect bloom.