scraps. 
   From powerful causes spring th’ empiric’s gains,
Man’s love of life, his weakness, and his pains;
These first induce him the vile trash to try,
Then lend his name, that other men may buy: 
This love of life, which in our nature rules,
To vile imposture makes us dupes and tools;
Then pain compels th’ impatient soul to seize
On promised hopes of instantaneous ease;
And weakness too with every wish complies,
Worn out and won by importunities. 
   Troubled with something in your bile or blood,
You think your doctor does you little good;
And grown impatient, you require in haste
The nervous cordial, nor dislike the taste;
It comforts, heals, and strengthens; nay, you think
It makes you better every time you drink;
“Then lend your name “you’re loth, but yet confess
Its powers are great, and so you acquiesce: 
Yet think a moment, ere your name you lend,
With whose ’tis placed, and what you recommend;
Who tipples brandy will some comfort feel,
But will he to the med’cine set his seal? 
Wait, and you’ll find the cordial you admire
Has added fuel to your fever’s fire: 
Say, should a robber chance your purse to spare,
Would you the honour of the man declare? 
Would you assist his purpose? swell his crime? 
Besides, he might not spare a second time. 
   Compassion sometimes sets the fatal sign,
The man was poor, and humbly begg’d a line;
Else how should noble names and titles back
The spreading praise of some advent’rous quack? 
But he the moment watches, and entreats
Your honour’s name,—­your honour joins the cheats;
You judged the med’cine harmless, and you lent
What help you could, and with the best intent;
But can it please you, thus to league with all
Whom he can beg or bribe to swell the scrawl? 
Would you these wrappers with your name adorn
Which hold the poison for the yet unborn? 
   No class escapes them—­from the poor man’s pay,
The nostrum takes no trifling part away: 
See! those square patent bottles from the shop,
Now decoration to the cupboard’s top;
And there a favourite hoard you’ll find within,
Companions meet! the julep and the gin. 
   Time too with cash is wasted; ’tis the fate
Of real helpers to be call’d too late;
This find the sick, when (time and patience gone)
Death with a tenfold terror hurries on. 
   Suppose the case surpasses human skill,
There comes a quack to flatter weakness still;
What greater evil can a flatterer do,
Than from himself to take the sufferer’s view? 
To turn from sacred thoughts his reasoning powers,
And rob a sinner of his dying hours? 
Yet this they dare, and craving to the last,
In hope’s strong bondage hold their victim fast: 
For soul or body no concern have they,
All their inquiry, “Can the patient pay? 
“And will he swallow draughts until his dying day?”