The Works of the English Poets, from Chaucer to Cowper

If any person would be more fully informed about the particulars of so pious a work, I refer him to a treatise, set forth by the authority of the president and censors, in the year 97. It is called, A short Account of the Proceedings of the College of Physicians, London, in Relation to the sick Poor. The reader may there not only be informed of the rise and progress of this so public an undertaking, but also of the concurrence and encouragement it met with from the best, as well as the most ancient members of the society, notwithstanding the vigorous opposition of a few men, who thought it their interest to defeat so laudable a design.

The intention of this preface is not to persuade mankind to enter into our quarrels, but to vindicate the author from being censured for taking any indecent liberty with a faculty he has the honour to be a member of. If the satire may appear directed at any particular person, it is at such only as are presumed to be engaged in dishonourable confederacies for mean and mercenary ends, against the dignity of their own profession. But if there be no such, then these characters are but imaginary, and by consequence ought to give nobody offence.

The description of the battle is grounded upon a feud that happened in the Dispensary, betwixt a member of the college with his retinue, and some of the servants that attended there to dispense the medicines; and is so far real, though the poetical relation be fictitious. I hope nobody will think the author too undecently reflecting through the whole, who, being too liable to faults himself, ought to be less severe upon the miscarriages of others. There is a character in this trivial performance, which the town, I find, applies to a particular person: it is a reflection which I should be sorry should give offence; being no more than what may be said of any physician remarkable for much practice. The killing of numbers of patients is so trite a piece of raillery, that it ought not to make the least impres sion, either upon the reader, or the person it is applied to; being one that I think in my conscience a very able physician, as well as a gentleman of extraordinary learning. If I am hard upon any one, it is my reader: but some worthy gentlemen, as remarkable for their humanity as their extraordinary parts, have taken care to make him amends for it, by prefixing something of their own.

I confess, those ingenious gentlemen have done me a great honour; but while they design an imaginary panegyric upon me, they have made a real one upon themselves; and by saying how much this small performance exceeds some others, they couvince the world how far it falls short of theirs.

THE COPY OF AN INSTRUMENT SUBSCRIBED BY THE PRESIDENT, CENSOR, MOST OF THE ELECTS, SENIOR FELLOWS, CANDIDATES, &c. of the college oF PHYSICIANS, IN RELATION TO THE SICK POOR.

WHEREAS the several orders of the College of Physicians, London, for prescribing medicines gratis to the poor sick of the cities of London and Westminster, and parts adjacent; as also proposals made by the said college to the lord mayor, court of aldermen, and common council, of London, in pursuance thereof; have hitherto been ineffectual, for that no method hath been taken to furnish the poor with medicines for their cure at low and reasonable rates; we therefore, whose names are here underwritten, fellows and members of the said college, being willing effectually to promote so great a charity, by the counsel and good-liking of the president and college declared in their comitia, hereby (to wit, each of us severally and apart, and not the one for the other of us) do oblige ourselves to pay to Dr. Thomas Burwell, fellow and elect of the said college, the sum of ten pounds apiece of lawful money of England, by such proportions, and at such times, as to the major part of the subscribers here shall seem most convenient; which money, when received by the said Dr. Thomas Burwell, is to be by him expended in preparing and delivering medicines to the poor at their intrinsic value, in such manner, and at such times, and by such orders and directions, as by the major part of the subscribers hereto shall in writing be hereafter appointed and directed for that purpose.

In witness whereof we have hereunto set our hands and seals, this twenty-second day of December, 1696.

Tho. Gill, censor.

Will. Dawes, censor.

Jo. Hutton.

Rob. Brady.
Hans Sloane.

Rich, Morton.

John Hawys.
Ch. Harel.

David Hamilton,
Hen. Morelli.

Walter Harris.
William Briggs.
Th. Colladon.
Martin Lister.
Jo. Colbatch.
Bernard Connor.

W. Cockburn,

J. le Feure.

P. Sylvestre.

Ch. Morton,

Edm. King.

Sam. Garth.

Barnh. Soame.

Denton Nicholas. Joseph Gaylard. John Woollaston. Steph. Hunt.

Oliver Horseman,

Rich. Morton, jun.
Walter Charlton.
Phineas Fowke,

Tho. Alvery,
Rob, Gray,
John Wright,
James Drake.

Sam. Morris.

John Woodward.

Norris.

George Colebrook,

Gideon Harvey.

Rich. Robinson,

The design of printing the subscribers names, is to show, that the late undertaking has the sanction of a college act; and that it is not a project carried on by five or six members, as those that oppose it would unjustly insinuate.

VERSES TO DR. GARTH.

TO DR. GARTH,

UPON THE DISPENSARY.

On that some genius, whose poetic vein
Like Montague's could a just piece sustain,
Would search the Grecian and the Latin store,
And thence present thee with the purest ore:
In lasting numbers praise thy whole design,
And manly beauty of each nervous line:
Show how your pointed satire's sterling wit,
Does only knaves or formal blockheads hit;
Who're gravely dull, insipidly serene,
And carry all their wisdom in their mien;
Whom thus expos'd, thus stripp'd of their disguise,
None will again admire, most will despise!
Show in what noble verse Nassau you sing,
How such a poet's worthy such a king!
When Somers' charming eloquence you praise,
How loftily your tuneful voice you raise!
But my poor feeble Muse is as unfit
To praise, as imitate what you have writ.
Artists alone should venture to commend
What Dennis can't condemn, nor Dryden mend:
What must, writ with that fire and with that ease,
The beaux, the ladies, and the critics, please.

C. BOYLE.

TO MY FRIEND THE AUTHOR,
DESIRING MY OPINION OF HIS POEM.
Ask me not, friend, what I approve or blame;
Perhaps I know not why I like, or damn;
I can be pleas'd; and 1 dare own I am.
I read thee over with a lover's eye;
Thou hast no faults, or I no faults can spy;
Thou art all beauty, or all blindness I.
Critics and aged beaux of fancy chaste,
Who ne'er had fire, or else whose fire is past,
Must judge by rules what they want force to taste.
I would a poet, like a mistress, try,

Not by her hair, her hand, her nose, her eye;
But by some nameless power, to give me joy.
The nymph has Grafton's, Cecil's, Churchill's
charms,

If with resistless fires my soul she warms,
With balm upon her lips, and raptures in her arms.
Such is thy genius, and such art is thine,
Some secret magic works in every line;
We judge not, but we feel the power divine.
Where all is just, is beauteous, and is fair,
Distinctions vanish of peculiar air.
Lost in our pleasure, we er joy in you
Lucretius, Horace, Sheffield, Montague.

And yet 'tis thought, some critics in this town,
By rules to all, but to themselves, unknown,
Will damn thy verse, and justify their own.
Why let them damn: were it not wondrous hard
Facetious Mirmil' and the city bard,

So near ally'd in learning, wit, and skill,
Should not have leave to judge, as well as kill?
Nay, let them write; let them their forces join,.
And hope the motley piece may rival thine.
Safely despise their malice, and their toil,
Which vulgar ears alone will reach, and will defile.
Be it thy generous pride to please the best,
Whose judgment, and whose friendship, is a test.
With learned Hans thy healing cares be join'd;
Search thoughtful Ratcliffe to his inmost mind;
Unite, restore your arts, and save mankind:
Whilst all the busy Mirmils of the town
Envy our health, and pine away their own.
Whene'er thou would'st a tempting Muse engage,
Judicious Walsh can best direct her rage.
To Somers and to Dorset too submit,
And let their stamp immortalise thy wit.
Consenting Phoebus bows, if they approve,
And ranks thee with the foremost bards above.
Whilst these of right the deathless laurel send,
Be it my humble business to commend
The faithful, honest man, and the well-natur'd

friend.

CHR. CODRINGTON.

TO MY FRIEND DR. GARTH,

THE AUTHOR OF THE DISPENSARY.

To praise your healing art would be in vain;
The health you give, prevents the poet's pen.
Sufficiently confirm'd is your renown,
And I but fill the chorus of the town.
That let me wave, and only now admire
The dazzling rays of your poetic fire:
Which its diffusive virtue does dispense,
In flowing verse, and elevated sense.

The town, which long has swallow'd foolish verse,

Which poetasters every where rehearse,
Will mend their judgment now, refine their taste,
And gather up th' applause they threw in waste.
The play-house shan't encourage false sublime,
Abortive thoughts, with decoration-rhyme.

The satire of vile scribblers shall appear
On none, except upon themselves, severe:
While yours contemns the gall of vulgar spite;
And when you seem to smile the most, you bite.
THO. CHEEK.

Dr. Gibbons.

TO MY FRIEND,

UPON THE DISPENSARY.

As when the people of the northern zone
Find the approach of the revolving Sun,
Pleas'd and reviv'd, they see the new-born light,
And dread no more eternity of night:

Thus we, who lately, as of summer's heat,
Have felt a dearth of poetry and wit,
Once fear'd, Apollo would return no more
From warmer climes to an ungrateful shore.
But you, the favourite of the tuneful Nine,
Have made the God in his full lustre shine;
Our night have chang'd into a glorious day;
And reach'd perfection in your first essay.
So the young eagle, that his force would try,
Faces the Sun, and towers it to the sky.

Others proceed to art by slow degrees,
Awkward at first, at length they faintly please;
And still, whate'er their first efforts produce,
'Tis an abortive, or an infant Muse:

Whilst yours, like Pallas, from the head of Jove,
Steps out full-grown, with noblest pace to move.
What ancient poets to their subjects owe,
Is here inverted, and this owes to you:
You found it little, but have made it great,
They could describe, but you alone create.

Now let your Muse rise with expanded wings,
To sing the fate of empires and of kings;
Great William's victories she'll next rehearse,
And raise a trophy of immortal verse:
Thus to your art proportion the design,
And mighty things with mighty numbers join,
A second Namur, or a future Boyne.
H. BLOUNT.

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The Works of the English Poets, from Chaucer to Cowper, Volumen9