Bleak Envy these dull Frauds with Pleasure sees,
And wonders at the senseless Mysteries.
In Colon's Voice she thus calls out aloud
On Horoscope environ'd by the Crowd.
Forbear, forbear, thy vain Amusements cease,
Thy Wood-Cocks from their Gins a while release;
And to that dire Misfortune listen well,
Which thou shoud'st fear to know, or I to tell.
'Tis true thou ever wast esteem'd by me
The great Alcides of our Company.
When we with Noble Scorn resolv'd to ease
Our selves from all Parochial Offices;
And to our Wealthier Patients left the Care,
And draggl'd Dignity of Scavenger:
Such Zeal in that Affair thou didst express,
Nought cou'd be equal, but the great Success.
Now call to mind thy Gen'rous Prowess past,
Be what thou shou'dst, by thinking what thou wast.
The Faculty of Warwick-Lane Design,
If not to Storm, at least to Undermine:
Their Gates each day Ten thousand Night-caps crowd,
And Mortars utter their Attempts aloud.
If they should once unmask our Mystery,
Each Nurse, ere long, wou'd be as learn'd as We;
Our Art expos'd to ev'ry Vulgar Eye,
And none, in Complaisance to us, would dye.
What if We claim their Right t'Assassinate,
Must they needs turn Apothecaries strait?
Prevent it, Gods! all Stratagems we try
To crowd with new Inhabitants your Sky.
'Tis
