VINDICIAE PHARMACAPOLAE, OR AN ANSWER to the DOCTOR'S COMPLAINTS against APOTHECARIES.  
〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  

'TIs strange to me, to see Revenging Sheets,  
Lambs-Conduit Paper, that in Duel meets  
On every Stall, and threaten passers by,  
Who without Doctors Stamp use Pharmacy.   

I have not seen a Month of Years, and so  
Th' Arcana's of these days I Dare not know;  
Nor dare I now presume to make presage,  
How present Influences Threat this Age.   

But I have heard, that 'tis not long agone,  
Since Chaos strived for Resurrection;  
When Babel liked to have been built again,  
Not by dull Bricklayers, but Men of Brain.   

The Lawyers left their Littleton's, to Found  
Committee Systems on Rebellion's ground:  
The Clergymen descried new Sects of Gods,  
Which made the Desks and Pulpits fall at odds;  
But they be now Friends, thanks to a Calmer Fate,  
Propitious to an almost ruined State.   

And now Physicians, (whom reports do say,  
By Licence have Authority to slay)  
Do worry one another, and do strive  
To kill themselves, and others keep alive:  
Which is a madness, mad as mad may be;  
Saviour of others is Felo de se.   

And though we do not claim to be a share  
Of Doctor's Dignity, of Art we are;  
And justly may be called (without offence)  
Appendix to their Practice, though not Pence.   

Let them consult together how to go,  
When the Nice Artery of Little Toe  
Is hurt, which (by Physicians) hath been said  
To Gangrene, and prove mortal in the Head.  
Apothecary's Trade is undergon,  
For a support, not to be trampled on.   

'Tis true, this latter age has far outdone  
What former did, or rather but begun.  
Great Helmont is revived, and who can be  
More Volatile, and full of Salt than he.  
He's tried by Fire; and thence it seems to some,  
Gallen but Physic's Caput Mortuum.   

What if Gallenick Doctor (Eyeing Pelf)  
Doth send for Simples, simple as himself;  
And order Antique Compounds, which Innure  
To Dissolution, rather than to Cure.   

What if their Bills upon our Files do meet,  
Till theirs and ours make Patients Winding-sheet:  
We're not in Fault, we rather are excused,  
Good Drugs by us are sold, by them abused.  
We in the Common Fate of Trade do stand;  
Buying and Selling doth support the Land.  
We but Prepare, Great Doctor doth Advise,  
He puts the Stuff in that puts out the Eyes.  
We hear not Paracelsian disagree,  
Though we should know his Art as well as he.   

Perhaps some Mandat-Doctors poor are grown,  
And now would Marr our Trade, to mend their own.  
What would the Inns of Court say, if they see,  
One person Counsel, Clerk, Attorney be.  
Like the Welsh Parish, without more ado,  
Had one man Curate, Clark, and Sexton too.  
I thought the Club-Divines had been forgot,  
Let Club-Physicians have Smectymnuan's lot.   

But oh intolerable! Doctor cries,  
He sees too much, pray put out both his eyes;  
He practise Physic, sans Physicians Aid,  
Learned PROFESSION is outfaced by Trade:  
He's grown a Chemist too, and so despise  
Our Great Diana whence our Profit rise.   

To this we Answer, Good Sir Methodist,  
This is no Eyesore to the Spagarist;  
Nor to those Sons of Art, whose Care and Pains  
Regard the Public, not their Private gains:  
Who in the greatest: search of Nature's Deep,  
Revive Mysterious Truths, long lain asleep.  
We know that Pyrotechny bears a part,  
As well in our Trade, as in your Art.  
'Tis that which ALL of us are taught to do;  
Let half the Doctors in the Town say so.  
Nay let them say, after their Bills searched be,  
If half th' Ingredients they did ever see:  
So that if 'Pothecaries must go down,  
You'll banish half the Doctors from the Town.   

And now to Answer for the Practic part,  
Laid to our charge, and so much grieved your heart;  
Though it perhaps might well be Justified,  
By changing Trades with you, yet 'tis denied;  
Unless we must not do what things are Common  
With every Keeper, Nurse, or Good Old Woman,  
Without the help of Doctor, whose Advice  
Is (as himself esteems it) of such Price,  
That such Distempers as by Us are Cured,  
Are easier borne, than Doctor's Fees endured.  
Besides our great Complainers are too high,  
Or should be, then to stoop and catch a Fly.   

But it's believed the noyse that's sent about  
T' amuse the people, and affright the rout,  
Is like fierce Corbet's Plea for Toleration,  
To only such as are of his Persuasion;  
Yet cannot Corbet show how many more,  
Are only of his mind, no, not a score.   

Let these Great Dons that thus their Names have raised  
By others Ruins, and would fain be praised,  
That into Nature's Crevices have div'd,  
And unto great Attainments have arrived,  
Let them but meet, and parley, and then see,  
First, if but any Ten of them agree;  
Let those Ten Doctors, Ten (no Doctors) try,  
Which are the most expert in Pharmacy.  
Then let them search how many can prepare,  
Their proper Medicines without our Care;  
Degrade the rest, and make but them to run,  
And for their Companies we'll be undone.   By T. C. Philo-Pharmacopeiae.