She on the World her Clemency shall show'r
And only to preserve, exert her Pow'r.
Tyrants shall then their impious Aims forbear,
And Blenheim's Thunder, more than [1]Ætna's, fear.
Since by no Arts I therefore can defeat
The happy Enterprizes of the Great,
I'll calmly stoop to more inferior Things;
And try if my lov'd Snakes have Teeth or Stings.
She said: and strait shrill Colon's Person took,
In Morals loose, but most precise in Look.
Black-Fryars Annals lately pleas'd to call
Him Warden of Apothecaries-Hall.
And, when so dignify'd, did not forbear
That Operation which the Learn'd declare
Gives Cholicks ease, and makes the Ladies fair.
In trifling Show his Tinsel Talent lies,
And Form the want of Intellects supplies.
In Aspect grand and goodly He appears,
Rever'd as Patriarchs in primæval Years.
Hourly his Learn'd Impertinence affords
A barren Superfluity of Words.
The Patient's Ears remorseless he assails,
Murthers with Jargon where his Med'cine fails.
The Fury thus assuming Colon's Grace,
So flung her Arms, so shuffl'd in her Pace.
Onward she hastens to the fam'd Abodes,
Where Horoscope invokes th'infernal Gods;
- ↑ In Ætna were forg'd the Thunder-bolts which Jove employ'd against the Ambition of the Giants.
And
