Of ailing lungs—­the oxymel of squills: 
Squills he procured, but found the bitter strong
And most unpleasant; none would take it long;
But the pure acid and the sweet would make
A med’cine numbers would for pleasure take. 
There was a fellow near, an artful knave,
Who knew the plan, and much assistance gave;
He wrote the puffs, and every talent plied
To make it sell:  it sold, and then he died. 
   Now all the profit fell to Ned’s control,
And Pride and Avarice quarrell’d for his soul;
When mighty profits by the trash were made,
Pride built a palace, Avarice groan’d and paid;
Pride placed the signs of grandeur all about,
And Avarice barr’d his friends and children out. 
   Now see him Doctor! yes, the idle fool,
The butt, the robber of the lads at school;
Who then knew nothing, nothing since acquired,
Became a doctor, honour’d and admired;
His dress, his frown, his dignity were such,
Some who had known him thought his knowledge much;
Nay, men of skill, of apprehension quick,
Spite of their knowledge, trusted him when sick;
Though he could neither reason, write, nor spell,
They yet had hope his trash would make them well;
And while they scorn’d his parts, they took his oxymel. 
   Oh! when his nerves had once received a shock,
Sir Isaac Newton might have gone to Rock: 
Hence impositions of the grossest kind,
Hence thought is feeble, understanding blind;
Hence sums enormous by those cheats are made,
And deaths unnumber’d by their dreadful trade. 
   Alas! in vain is my contempt express’d,
To stronger passions are their words address’d;
To pain, to fear, to terror, their appeal,
To those who, weakly reasoning, strongly feel. 
   What then our hopes?—­perhaps there may by law
Be method found these pests to curb and awe;
Yet in this land of freedom law is slack
With any being to commence attack;
Then let us trust to science—­there are those
Who can their falsehoods and their frauds disclose,
All their vile trash detect, and their low tricks expose;
Perhaps their numbers may in time confound
Their arts—­as scorpions give themselves the wound;
For when these curers dwell in every place,
While of the cured we not a man can trace,
Strong truth may then the public mind persuade,
And spoil the fruits of this nefarious trade.

LETTER VIII.

Non possidentem multa vocaveris
Recte beatum:  rectius occupat
Nomen Beati, qui Deorum
Muneribus sapienter uti,
Duramque callet pauperiem pati. 
                  Horace, Ode 9.

Non propter vitam faciunt patrimonia quidam,
Sed vitio caeci propter patrimonia vivunt. 
                          Juvenal, Satire 12.

Non uxor salvum te vult, non filius; omnes
Vicini oderunt; noti pueri atque puellae;
Miraris cum tu argento post omnia ponas,
Si nemo praestet, quem non merearis, amorem. 
                             Horace, Satires.