Observe what ills to nervous females flow,
When the heart flutters, and the pulse is low;
If once induced these cordial sips to try,
All feel the ease, and few the danger fly;
For, while obtain’d, of drams they’ve all the force,
And when denied, then drams are the resource. 
   Nor these the only evils—­there are those
Who for the troubled mind prepare repose;
They write:  the young are tenderly address’d,
Much danger hinted, much concern express’d;
They dwell on freedoms lads are prone to take,
Which makes the doctor tremble for their sake;
Still if the youthful patient will but trust
In one so kind, so pitiful, and just;
If he will take the tonic all the time,
And hold but moderate intercourse with crime;
The sage will gravely give his honest word,
That strength and spirits shall be both restored;
In plainer English—­if you mean to sin,
Fly to the drops, and instantly begin. 
   Who would not lend a sympathizing sigh,
To hear yon infant’s pity-moving cry? 
That feeble sob, unlike the new-born note
Which came with vigour from the op’ning throat,
When air and light first rush’d on lungs and eyes,
And there was life and spirit in the cries;
Now an abortive, faint attempt to weep
Is all we hear; sensation is asleep: 
The boy was healthy, and at first express’d
His feelings loudly when he fail’d to rest;
When cramm’d with food, and tighten’d every limb,
To cry aloud was what pertain’d to him;
Then the good nurse (who, had she borne a brain,
Had sought the cause that made her babe complain)
Has all her efforts, loving soul! applied
To set the cry, and not the cause, aside;
She gave her powerful sweet without remorse
The sleeping cordial—­she had tried its force,
Repeating oft:  the infant, freed from pain,
Rejected food, but took the dose again,
Sinking to sleep; while she her joy express’d,
That her dear charge could sweetly take his rest: 
Soon may she spare her cordial; not a doubt
Remains, but quickly he will resfc without. 
   This moves our grief and pity, and we sigh
To think what numbers from these causes die;
But what contempt and anger should we show,
Did we the lives of these impostors know! 
   Ere for the world’s I left the cares of school,
One I remember who assumed the fool;
A part well suited—­when the idler boys
Would shout around him, and he loved the noise;
They called him Neddy;—­Neddy had the art
To play with skill his ignominious part;
When he his trifles would for sale display,
And act the mimic for a schoolboy’s pay. 
For many years he plied his humble trade,
And used his tricks and talents to persuade;
The fellow barely read, but chanced to look
Among the fragments of a tatter’d book;
Where, after many efforts made to spell
One puzzling word, he found it—­oxymel;
A potent thing, ’twas said to cure the ills