The Apothecary's Vindication In Answer to an Abusive Book Entitled The Family Physician and House Apothecary.  
NOw Machiavel's revived, he doth defame  
Bodily such who are of an unstained Fame:  
Bavius and Maevius, a Quack of one Litter,  
Have took a Glister and do foully squitter.  
A Scavenger his dung doth fling abroad,  
Bespattering such as pass by in his Road.  
Just so a Scribbling Quack with his Goose-quill  
Men in their good names strive to wound or kill.  
The Press is overpress with fools in print  
Where they their envy and their malice mint.  
He foams and fumes, reviling Learned Men,  
In Gaul and Vinegar who dips his Pen.  
If Housewife Physic would serve the turn,  
The Learned Doctors might their Books soon burn,  
A Pedlar for his Books may give some pins,  
Yet still complain that by them he naught wins.  
Phlebotomy is fit, as I can tell;  
To bleed his tongue that's set on fire of Hell.  
Midsummer Moon is past, Madmen are penned,  
In close dark Rooms, great mischiefs to prevent.  
Oh Quack, if yet one shaving of thy Wit  
Be left, that Bedlam thou mayst scape, 'tis fit  
To give thee counsel to take Pills,  
To purge thy Head, which with Chimeras fills.  
Let Apothecaries alone, mind thy Quacking Trade,  
If I could but on thee thus prevail,  
Then I might hope that thou wouldst leave to rail.  
Abimelech fight by a Woman fell,  
And Female Empyricks cause many a knell.  
Doctors of Physic will keep their renown,  
When Quacks and Mountebanks shall be trampled down.  
Why should this Momus envy Artists gains,  
Rewards are due to Learned and their pains;  
Returns are slow, and many Drugs are lost,  
Good Gains are to be allowed for Charge and Cost.  
Forbear, O Momus, Learned to abuse,  
And the Apothecaries Falsely to accuse.  
One foul Disease is seldom or ne'er Cured,  
If thou hast got it thou'lt not be Endured.  
Wash first thy Heart, afterwards thy Tongue,  
And so thou wilt not do thy Neighbours wrong.  
What? from a Doctor, a Quack to turn;  
His Lying Books the Hangman soon may burn.  
Momus and Ignoramus join together,  
Hang choice there is, if you take one of either  
Foam at the top, and at the bottom dregs;  
Such are his Books, which stink like rotten Eggs.  
Leave off to Lie, least Artists take some Pains  
To give thee Hellebore and purge thy Brains.  
Thou Lion-like walks abroad and roars,  
But there stands open for thee Bedlam doors:  
I wish thou come not there, but to thyself  
Wiser to be, and not a peevish Elf.  
Thus I have paid thee off in thine own Coin,  
None will thee Bail by Wager or Essoyn.  
FINIS.