The dispensary a poem.

The Dispensary. CANTO V. (Book 5)

WHen the still Night, with peaceful Poppies crown'd, Had spread her shady Pinions o're the Ground; And slumbring Chiefs of painted Triumphs dream, Whilst Groves and Streams are the soft Virgin's Theme. The Surges gently dash against the Shoar, Flocks quit the Plains, and Gally-Slaves the Oar. Sleep shakes its downy Wings o're mortal Eyes, Mirmillo is the only Wretch, it Flies. He finds no respite from his anxious Grief, Then seeks from this Soliloquy relief.

Long have I reign'd unrival'd in the Town, And great as my Ambition's my Renown. There's none can dye with due Solemnity, Unless his Pass-port first be sign'd by Me. My arbitrary Bounty's undeny'd, I give Reversions, and for Heirs provide. None cou'd the tedious Nuptial State support; But I, to make it easie, make it short. I set the discontented Matrons free, And ransom Husbands from Captivity. And shall so useful a Machin as I Engage in civil Broyls, I know not why? No, I'll endeavour strait a Peace, and so I save my Honour, and my Person too.

But Discord, that still haunts with hideous Mien Those dire Abodes where Hymen once has been, O're-heard Mirmillo reas'ning in his Bed; Then raging inwardly the Fury said.

Have I so often banisht lazy Peace From her dark Solitude, and lov'd Recess? Have I made S—th and S—lock disagree, And puzzle Truth with learn'd Obscurity? And does my faithful Fer—son profess His Ardour still for Animosities? Have I, Britannia's Safety to insure, Expos'd her naked, to be more secure? Have I made Parties opposite, unite, In monstrous Leagues of amicable Spight. T' embroyl their Country, whilst the common Cry, Is Freedom, but their Aim, the Ministry? And shall a Dastard's Cowardise prevent The War so long I've labour'd to foment? No, 'tis resolv'd, he either shall comply, Or I'll renounce my wan Divinity.

With that, the Hag approach'd Mirmillo's Bed, And taking Querpo's meager Shape, She said;

I come, altho' at Midnight, to dispel, Those Tumults in your pensive Bosom dwell. I dream't, but now, my Friend, that you were by; Methought I saw your Tears, and heard you sigh. O that 'twere but a Dream! But sure I find Grief in your Looks, and Tempests in your Mind. Speak, whence it is this late disorder flows, That shakes your Soul, and troubles your Repose. Erroneous Practice scarce cou'd give you Pain, Too well you know the Dead will ne're complain.

What Looks discover, said the Homicide, Wou'd be but too impertinent to hide. My Stars direct me to decline the Fight; The way to serve our Party, is to write.

How many, said the Fury, had not split On Shelves so fatal, if they ne're had writ! Had C—h printed nothing of his own, He had not been the S—fold o' the Town.

Asses and Owls unseen themselves betray, If These attempt to Hoot, or Those to Bray. Had We—y never aim'd in Verse to please, We had not rank'd him with our Ogilbys. Still Censures will on dull Pretenders fall, A Codrus shou'd expect a Iuvenal. Ill Lines, but like ill Paintings, are allow'd To set off, and to recommend the good. So Diamonds take a Lustre from their Foyle; And to a B—ly 'tis, we owe a B—le.

Consider well the Talent you possess, To strive to make it more wou'd make it less; And recollect what Gratitude is due, To Those whose Party you abandon now. To Them you owe your odd Magnificence, But to your Stars your penury of Sense. Haspt in a Tombril, awkardly you've shin'd With one fat Slave before, and none behind.

But soon, what They've exalted They'l discard, And set up Carus, or the City Bard.

Alarm'd at this, the Heroe Courage took, And Storms of Terrour threaten'd in his Look. My dread Resolves, he cry'd, I'l straight pursue, The Fury smil'd, and sullenly with-drew.

In omnious Dreams Mirmillo spent the Night, And frightful Phantoms danc'd before his Sight. At length gay Morn smiles in the Eastern Skie, From rifling silent Graves the Sextons fly. The rising Mists skud o're the dewy Lawns, The Chanter at his early Matins yawns. The Violets ope their Buds, Cowslips their Bells, And Progne, her Complaint of Tereus, tells. As bold Mirmillo the gray dawn descries, Arm'd Cap-a-pe, where Honour calls, he flies And finds the Legions planted at their Post; Where Querpo in his Armour shone the most.

His Shield was wrought, if we may credit Fame By Mulciber, the Mayor of Bremigham. A Folliage of dissembl'd Senna Leaves, Grav'd round its Brim, the wondring sight deceives. Embost upon its Feild, a Battel stood Of Leeches spouting Hemorrhoidal Blood. The Artist too exprest the solemn state Of grave Physicians at a Consult met; About each Symptom how they Disagree, But how unanimous in case of Fee. And whilst one Assassin another plys, With starch'd Civilities, the Patient dyes.

Beneath this Blazing Orb bright Querpo shone, Himself an Atlas, and his Sheild a Moon. A Pestle for his Truncheon led the Van, And his high Helmet was a Close stool-pan. His Crest an * 1.1 Ibis, brandishing her Beak, And winding in loose Folds her spiral Neck.

This, when the Young Querpoides beheld, His Face in Nurse's Breast the Boy conceal'd. Then peep't, and with th' effulgent Helm wou'd play, But as the Monster gap'd, he'd shrink away. Thus sometimes Joy prevail'd, and sometimes Fear, And Tears and Smiles alternate Passions were.

But Fame that whispers each profound Design, And tells the Consultations at the Vine. And how at Church and Bar all gape and stretch, If Wi—ton but plead, or O—ly preach; On nimble Wings to Warwick-Lane repairs, And what the Enemy intends, declares. Disorder'd Murmurs thro' the College pass, And pale Confusion glares in ev'ry Face. In hast a Council's call'd, th' Occasion's great, And quick as Thought, the summon'd Members meet. Loud Stentor to th' Assembly had Access, None courted bus'ness more, or knew it less.

True to Extreams, yet to dull Forms a Slave, He's always dully gay, or vainly grave. With Indignation, and a daring Air, He paus'd a-while, and thus address'd the Chair.

Machaon, whose Experience we adore, Great as your matchless Merits, is your Pow'r. At your Approach, the baffl'd Tyrant Death, Breaks his keen Shafts, and grinds his clashing Teeth. To you we leave the Conduct of the Day, What you command, your Vassals must obey. If this dread Enterprize you wou'd decline, We'l send to treat, and stifle the Design. But if my Arguments had force, we'd try To scatter our audacious Foes, or dye.

What Stentor offer'd was by most approv'd, But sev'ral Voices several Methods mov'd. At length th' adventrous Heroes all agree T' expect the Foe, and act defensively.

Into the Shop their bold Battallions move, And what their Chief commands, the rest approve. Down from the Walls they tear the Shelves in haste, Which, on their Flank, for Pallisades are plac'd. And then, behind the Compter rang'd, they stand, Their Front so well secur'd t' obey Command.

And now the Scouts the adverse Host descry, Blew Aprons in the Air for Colours fly. With unresisted Force they urge their Way, And find the Foe embattel'd in Array. Then, from their level'd Syringes they pour The liquid Volly of a missive Show'r. Not Storms of Sleet, which o're the Baltick drive, Push't on by Northern Gusts, such Horrour give. Like Spouts in Southern Seas the Deluge broke, And Numbers sunk beneath th' impetuou Stroak. So when Leviathans Dispute the Reign, And uncontrol'd Dominion of the Main.

From the rent Rocks whole Coral Groves are torn, And Isles of Sea-weed on the Waves are born. Such watry Stores from their spread Nostrils fly, 'Tis doubtful, which is Sea, and which is Sky.

And now the stagg'ring Braves, led by Despair, Advance, and to return the Charge prepare. Each seizes for his Sheild, an ample Scale, And the Brass Weights fly thick as showr's of Hail. Whole heaps of Warriours welter on the Ground, With Gally-Pots, and broken Phials crown'd, And th' empty Vessels the Defeat resound. Thus when some Storm its Chrystal Quarry rends, And Iove in ratling Show'rs of Ice descends; Mount Athos shakes the Forests on his Brow, Whilst down his wounded Sides fresh Torrents flow, And Leaves and Limbs of Trees o're spread the vale below.

But now, all Order lost, promiscuous Blows Confus'dly fall; perplex'd the Battel grows.

From Stentor's sinewy Arm an Opiate flys, And straight a deadly Sleep clos'd Carus Eyes. Chiron hit Siphilus with Calomel, And scaly Crusts from his maim'd Fore-head fell. At Colon great Iapix Rhubarb flung, Who with fierce Gripes, like those of Death, was stung; And with an angry and revengefull Mien Hurl'd back Steel Pills, and hit Him on the Spleen. Scribonius a vast Eagle-stone let fly At Psylas, but Lucina put it by. And Querpo, warm'd with more than mortal Rage, Sprung thro' the Battel, Stentor to engage. Fierce was the Onset, the Dispute was great, Both cou'd not vanquish, Neither wou'd retreat. Each Combatant his Adversary mauls With batter'd Bed-pans, and stav'd Urinals. But as bold Stentor, eager of Renown, Design'd a fatal Stroak, he tumbl'd down; And whilst the Victor, hov'ring o're him stood, With arms extended, thus the Suppliant su'd.

When Honour's lost 'tis a relief to dye, Death's but a sure retreat from Infamy. But to the lost, if pity might be shown, Think on Querpoides thy darling Son; Mine's small as He, just such an infant Grace, Sports in his Eyes and flatters in his Face. If he was by, Compassion He'd create, Or else lament his wretched Parent's fate. Thine is the Glory, and the Field is thine; To Thee the lov'd Dispensary I resign.

The Chief at this the deadly Stroak declin'd, And found Compassion pleading in his Mind. But whilst He view'd with pity the Distress'd, He spy'd * 1.2 Signetur writ upon his Breast. Then tow'rds the Skies He toss'd his threat'ning Head. And fir'd with mortal Indignation, said;

Sooner than I'll from vow'd Revenge desist, His Holiness shall turn a Quietist.

La Chase shall with the Iansenists agree, And th' Inquisition wink at Heresy. Faith stand unmov'd thro' S—fleet's Defence, And L—k for Mystery abandon Sense.

With that, unsheathing an Incision Knife, He offer'd at the prostrate Stentor's Life. But whilst his Thoughts that fatal Act decree, Apollo interpos'd in form of Fee. The Chief great Paean's golden Tresses knew, He own'd the God, and his rais'd Arm withdrew.

Thus often at the Temple-Stairs we've seen Two Tritons of a rough Athletick Mien, Sowrly dispute some quarrel of the Flood, With Knucles bruis'd, and Face besmear'd in blood. But at the first appearance of a Fare Both quit the Fray, and to their Oars repair.

The Hero thus his Enterprise recalls, His Fist unclinches, and the Weapon falls.

Notes

• * 1.1

  This Bird, ac∣cording to the an∣cients, gives it self a Clyster with its Beek.
• * 1.2

  Those Members of the College that observe a late Statute, are call'd by the Apotheca∣ries Signe∣tur Men.