RUB for RUB: OR, AN ANSWER TO A PHYSICIAN'S PAMPHLET, STYLED, The Stroker stroked.  
COme hither, Doctor, and behold in short  
Something of truth, Sir, touching your report.  
You with your beastly stories would delude  
The Faith and Wisdom of the Multitude.  
Ha', ha', Physician, is your envy such?  
Are you so touchy, yet not brook a touch?  
You played the Poet but were't much deceived,  
To think your Fictions would be believed.  
We laugh and scorn thy envious Libel, pish,  
'tis but the Froth of Malice, Womanish.  
Whip behind Coachman, cries this envious Boy  
Because he cannot, what that doth, enjoy.  
You envied as his Happiness, and grudge  
Because you cannot grope where he doth touch:  
Doctor, your Practice is too scant I trow,  
Which makes you wound (another's Credit) so.  
And so you're in an Error most profound,  
For he in Duty ought to Heal, not Wound.  
Alas, his Craft he cannot always smother,  
We see he doth the one as oft as th' other:  
Doctor, you could not when you would defame,  
You looked asquint, Sir, and so missed your aim.  
True, you struck high, but wound you were not able,  
For what you struck at was invulnerable.  
'twas a Consumption in the Purse, I fear,  
That made the Remedy, prescribed a Jeer.  
As once Demetrius fearing loss of Gain  
Strove to confound what Heaven did maintain.  
Alas, you fear your Craft should come to nought,  
Because such Wonders by his Hands are wrought,  
His Deeds pronounce his Worth: But let us know  
What Honour we, to you Physicians owe.  
Vve're not beholding unto you I'm sure,  
Not you, but 'tis our Money gives us Cure.  
Ye're Rhetoricians in our Cure, we see,  
'tis wholly done by a Synecdoche.  
Some Griefs you throughly Cure, and they are these;  
A rich man's Golden Pleurisy finds ease.  
And presently you Cure, as 'twere by slight,  
A heavy hearted Purse and make it light.  
Doctor, your Art to every Grief extends,  
But yet you do your Cures for your own ends.  
A Friend of mine to prove the Doctor came,  
And brought a Glass of Urinal in's own name.  
He took the Glass, he shaked it, than replied,  
A Fever strong, but faith the Doctor lied.  
A Doctor for a Horse I swear he is,  
The feav'rish Urinal was a Horses Piss.  
And by this instance, we may plainly see,  
You're the Deceiver, Doctor, and not he.  
Then he's a Jesuit, but you're in the wrong:  
Physician, Cure thyself, thy Tongue's too long.  
Rather than nought, the very Truth you'll slander,  
The Doctor's want of Practice makes him maunder.  
But yet his envious Fictive Brain's not able,  
To droll Reality into a Fable.  
His hand is truly powerful whose stroke  
Twice dispossessed and made the Devil smoke.  
What if he clipped and clapped, what's that to you?  
've clipped and clapped, and have been clapped too.  
For, if to me my Author have not lied,  
Though nor, o'th' back, he once was Scarified.  
Your foul report betrays you, and in truth,  
I fear the Doctor hath a liquorish Tooth.  
Her Stocking off, he strokes her Lilly-foot,  
What then? The Doctor had a mind to do't.  
Her Legs, her Knees, her Thighs, a little higher.  
And there's the Doctor's Centre of Desire;  
Where he, as I for certain understand,  
Hath searched many a wenches Country-land.  
One Wench, I hear, and her Discase was this,  
And that no strange one is, the Green-sickness,  
He saw the Maid was in a needy mood,  
He straight presumed a Clyster might be good:  
He lays her on the bed, O beastly story!  
And then thrusts in his long Suppository,  
And tells her on his Faith, deny't who can,  
Nothing so good for her, as th' Oil of Man.  
And then I'm sure, if what is true, were spoke,  
She gave him touch for tuch, and stroke for stroke.  
But passing this, and many o'th' like sort,  
Doctor, your Practice hath no good report;  
And all suppose by your obscene Narration,  
Your Brains and Back want a severe Purgation,  
Your Pamphlet false, Reason itself implies,  
For 'twas all Poetry, and therefore Lies.  

Thus you and I upon the Matter Strike,  
You give a Rub, and I Return the Like.    

LONDON, Printed in the Year 1666.