To tell his Maker, he has had a share!)
Still let me feel for what thy pangs are sent,
And be my guide, and not my punishment! 
   Of Leah Cousins next the name appears,
With honours crown’d and blest with length of years,
Save that she lived to feel, in life’s decay,
The pleasure die, the honours drop away;
A matron she, whom every village-wife
View’d as the help and guardian of her life,
Fathers and sons, indebted to her aid,
Respect to her and her profession paid;
Who in the house of plenty largely fed,
Yet took her station at the pauper’s bed;
Nor from that duty could be bribed again,
While fear or danger urged her to remain: 
In her experience all her friends relied. 
Heaven was her help and nature was her guide. 
   Thus Leah lived; long trusted, much caress’d,
Till a Town-Dame a youthful farmer bless’d;
A gay vain bride, who would example give
To that poor village where she deign’d to live;
Some few months past, she sent, in hour of need,
For Doctor Glibb, who came with wond’rous speed,
Two days he waited, all his art applied,
To save the mother when her infant died:  —
“’Twas well I came,” at last he deign’d to say;
“’Twas wondrous well;”—­and proudly rode away. 
   The news ran round;—­“How vast the Doctor’s pow’r!”
He saved the Lady in the trying hour;
Saved her from death, when she was dead to hope,
And her fond husband had resign’d her up: 
So all, like her, may evil fate defy,
If Doctor Glibb, with saving hand, be nigh. 
   Fame (now his friend), fear, novelty, and whim,
And fashion, sent the varying sex to him: 
From this, contention in the village rose;
And these the Dame espoused; the Doctor those,
The wealthier part to him and science went;
With luck and her the poor remain’d content. 
   The Matron sigh’d; for she was vex’d at heart,
With so much profit, so much fame, to part: 
“So long successful in my art,” she cried,
“And this proud man, so young and so untried!”
“Nay,” said the Doctor, “dare you trust your wives,
The joy, the pride, the solace of your lives,
To one who acts and knows no reason why,
But trusts, poor hag! to luck for an ally? —
Who, on experience, can her claims advance,
And own the powers of accident and chance? 
A whining dame, who prays in danger’s view,
(A proof she knows not what beside to do;)
What’s her experience?  In the time that’s gone,
Blundering she wrought, and still she blunders on:-
And what is Nature?  One who acts in aid
Of gossips half asleep and half afraid: 
With such allies I scorn my fame to blend,
Skill is my luck and courage is my friend: 
No slave to Nature, ’tis my chief delight
To win my way and act in her despite:-
Trust then my art, that, in itself complete,
Needs no assistance and fears no defeat.” 
   Warm’d by her well-spiced ale and aiding pipe,