The DEVIL upon DUN: OR The Downfall of the Upstart CHYMIST:
Being the Second Edition of a Late SONG:
To the Tune of Smoak us, and choak us.
'MOngst all Professions in the Town,
Held most in renown,
From th' Sword to the Gown,
The upstart Chymist rules the Roast;
For He with his Pill
Does ev'n what he will,
Employing his skill,
Good Subjects to kill,
That he of his dang'rous Art may boast,
O 'tis the Chymist, that man of the fire,
Who by his Black Art
Does Soul and Body part:
He smoaks us, and choaksus,
And leaves us like Dun in the mire.
And first for the Lawyers, who multiply,
That one can scarce lye,
And th' other stand by,
Five Grains took of th' grand Preparation,
Their Bodies will maull,
Thin Westminster-Hall,
Cease Suits, and give a long Vacation.
O 'tis the Chymist, &c.
At th' Sessions house he commenc'd his Trade,
Where he aloud pray'd
For th' King, long he stay'd
Not there, being burnt in th' hand
To inure him to fire,
He proceeded then high'r,
Restless in desire,
Till he of a Chymist had the Brand.
O 'tis the Chymist, &c.
As for the Parsons, both Pro and Con,
Dispute, and Objection,
Can't save them, th' Chymist anon
With th' Elixir can soon end the strife,
Straight silence them both,
Who t' agree are loth,
For th' Ginny-pigs sake, though
Their quarrels give th' Old Cause new life.
Also the Souldier, that man of Arms,
Who never fears harms,
Nor any fresh alarms,
Let this Chymist enter the Field
Ev'n with a General,
The brav'st Collonel,
A Pill, or Sublimate will make them yield.
O 'tis the Chymist, &c.
Dull Aristotle was an old Fool,
For he went to School
Instead of the Stool:
What he wrote, he stole from Books;
This mysterie is such,
Say who can too much
In it? whose deadly touch,
Makes Bum-foder scarce, it who twice brooks?
O 'tis the Chymist, that man of the fire,
Who by his Black Art
Does Soul and Body part:
He smoaks us, and choaks us,
And leaves us like Dun in the mire.
The learned Universities,
Ancient as Mince-pies,
Say that all are lies,
But Emperick-like hee'll make them broil
Like Sprats on the cole,
Leaving them no soul,
But make a deep hole
To bury their old heathenish soil.
O 'tis the Chymist, &c.
Old Physitians never writ
Ought of real wit,
But what was most fit
To be refin'd by th' Chymical Art;
Rubarb, Senna, and Drugs
Ev'n like to College Mugs,
Which the Sophister oft lugs,
Nothing comes, but a Metaphysical F—
O 'tis the Chymist, &c.
'Gainst Hippocrates and Galen eke,
These Saints have a peke,
'Cause they wrote in Greek;
With Learning they'l not trouble the Brain,
The Mother-tongue alone
Kills dead as a stone;
This done with th' fifteenth part of a Grain.
O 'tis the Chymist, &c.
The College Doctors with great heat,
Do very much brow-beat
So desp'rate a cheat,
Using prov'd methods safe to cure;
Yet these Chymists cry,
Who dares it deny?
At easie rates they'l make all sure.
O 'tis the Chymist, &c.
If Wife of Husband, or Husband of Wife,
By reason of strife
Are we'ry, Or Fathers life
Hinders th' Heir; his Laboratory
Can perform with hast,
Without much distast,
What Indian poyson cann't supply.
O 'tis the Chymist, that man of the fire,
Who by his Black Art
Does Soul and Body part:
He smoaks us, and choaks us,
And leaves us like Dun in the mire.
The learned Chymists we don't decry,
Natures Mystery
He most faithfully
Unlocks: But our upstart Chymists bee
A meer mushroom strain
Who give Folks their bain
Very Quacks in grain,
They, and the Sextons are in Fee.
O 'tis the Chymist, &c.
How say y' Sirs, shall these practise then,
Very expert men
T' kill, Dick, Tom, and Ben?
Nay, rather let this Chymical Crew,
Be sent to Algier,
That Trade may be free'r:
They'l outdoe a Navy, give the Devil his due:
O 'tis the Chymist, &c.
Then may New Troy with Citizens fill,
Being secur'd from ill;
Then no printed Bill,
No Almanack; no Tradesman's Shop
Shall th' Elixir vent,
To make Experiment
On liege people, killing with one drop.
O 'tis the Chymist, &c.
Now to conclude, let's merrily sing
God bless Our Good KING
From the Dragons Sting,
Heavens preserve him Ages about:
For none of his Foes
The Common-weal oppose,
As every one knows,
By their great hurt, and woes,
Than th' Quack and this Chymical Ront.
O 'tis the Chymist, &c.
LONDON, Printed for: Nathaniel Brooke at the Angel in Cornhill near the Royal-Exchange, 1672.