POETRY. 461 



And, like the oaken shelf whereon 'tis laid, 

 Mocks the weak efforts of the bending blade ; 

 Or in the hog-trough rests in perfect spite, 

 Too big to swallow, and too hard to bite. 

 Inglorious victory ! Ye Cheshire meads. 

 Or Severn's flowery dales^ where plenty treads. 

 Was your rich milk to suffer wrongs like these, 

 Farewell your pride ! farewell renowned cheese ! 

 The skimmer dread, whose ravages alone 

 Thus turn the mead's sweet nectar into stone. 



The RHYMING APOTHECARY ; a Ta/e. £y George Colman,^*^/ 



A Man, in many a country town we know. 

 Professing openly with death to wrestle ; 

 Ent'ring the field against the grimly foe, 

 Arm'd with a mortar and a pestle. 



Yet, some affirm ^ no enemies they are ; 



But meet, just like prize-fighters, in a fair ; 



Who first shake hands before they box, 



Then give each other plaguy knocks. 



With all the love and kindness of a brother : 

 So (many a suff'ring patient saith) 

 Though the apothecary fights with death^ 



Still they're sworn friends to one another. 



A member of this jEsculapian line. 

 Lived at Newcastle-upon-Tyne : 

 No man could better gild a pill ; 



Or make a bill ; 

 Or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister; 

 Or draw a tooth out of your head ; 

 Or chatter scandal by your bed ; 



Or give a glister. 



Of occupations these were quantum suff: 

 Yet still he thought the list not long enough ; 



And therefore midwifery he chose to pin to't. 

 This balanc'd things: — for if he hurl'd 

 A few score mortals frOni the world. 



He made amends by bringing others into't. 



His fame full six miles round the country ran ; 



In short, in reputation he was solus : 

 All the old women call'd him "a fine man!" 



His name was Bolus. 



