PROLOGUE TO Physick Reform'd.
Three Colledges of late,
Were in a hot Debate,
About a Brain-sick Ass,
That ought to have a Pass
To go from whence he came.
Moorfields was in a Rage,
And swore that ne're a Page
In all the Ape had writ,
Had either Art of Wit:
'Twas done to get a Name.
Therefore the Quack shall be
In Straw, Confin'd with me,
Until his Sense return,
For Wit he'll ne're have none,
All must subscribe to this.
Then Warwick-lane began
To speak of this Young Man,
And own'd they must allow
All that was said was true,
Yet did not do amiss
In letting of him be
Of their Society:
For tho' he has no sence,
Yet he has Impudence
Enough to Say, and Write.
He understands much more
Than e're was known before,
And e'ery Man's a Fool
That is not of our School;
For us he'll Write, Lye, Fight,
Inform, Suborn, nay Swear;
But of his Bite beware:
Thus whilst he'll be our Tool,
He shall be of our School.
Bridenwell at this with's Whip a Circle drew,
Then Conjur'd up old Harry's Ghost to view
The ills, he'd done in forming of such Schools,
Compos'd of nothing else but Knaves and Fools.
The Ghost reply'd, I ne'er Consented to
That Law, they say they have, for what they do:
Unto this Town they are a greater Cheat,
Than to the World is the damn'd Romish Seat.
Hast to their Synagogue; say, Industry
And Wit are Cramp'd by their Monopoly.
Plague, Famine, Sword, produce not half the Ill
That these Rogues do, in Licensing to Kill.
Lash out the Drones, and then you'll scarcely see
In that great Hive so much as one poor Bee,
For Sourbatch that Wretch belongs to thee.
Printed for J. C. Junior.