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THE QUACK TO HIS PATIENT.

Have courage, Patient! though your pulse is low,The healing art shall make life's current flow;Be but your faith as potent as your purse,Your malady should yield, though it were worse-Nay, never glance at him, —'tis not by booksThat we know authors, or men by their looks.He is my agent, and he bears the balmThat smooths the brow of pain, and gives a calmTo all the features;—such a tranquil restThat yields to no disturbance of the breast:Not even outward ills have power to shakeThe frame of him who shall this julep take.

But not in one prescription lies my power,—I've one for every day, nay, every hour;For all diseases I've the remedy,But men are yet so foolish—they will die: