Classic Poem

The Humble Petition of Thomas Trade, of the said City , Wool-Stapler.

That, in rhyme , I petition, you must not complain,
For, I oft, have try'd reason , and found, 'twas in vain:

T HE known sturdy beggar , who, now, craves your aid ,
Was, once, a fam'd citizen — honest Tom Trade ;
His father a clothier , his mother Creole ,
Bid their Son — a blunt, English , impolitic, soul,
Always think what he pleas'd , and speak what he thought ;
And (a fool for my pains!) I e'en did, as I ought.
Hence it came — and, no wonder, you Doctors will say,
That my fortune turn'd tail , and fell to decay:
How it happen'd, I know not; but, soon, from a Tun ,
I was shrunk to a Noggin — and fairly undone!
From a fat, florid cheek , and an eye void of care ,
With a freeholder's belly, and bluff British air,
I assum'd a lean, Spanish , lank, leathery, jaw ,
And look'd dry, tall, and yellow , and light, like a straw:
Well! no matter, you'll say, for my air , or my face ;
So, I hasten, to sigh out my sorrowful case .

T HERE'S a shameless old quack , by name Dr Shift ,
Who does very strange things, at a very dead lift,
'Twas to him , or to none, all agreed I must go,
If I meant any better, or bigger , to grow.

W HEN I show'd him my bones , as they peep'd thro' my skin ,
And complain'd, what a dryness consum'd me, within ;
I must fleece thee, he cry'd, if thou wishest to live .
De'el a lock (answer'd I) have they left me to give .
Set your seal , then, to mortgage the hopes of your son ,
And the cure be my care, so the bus'ness is done.
For, I ne'er cou'd ask fees , nor be seen any more,
If my patients , so peel'd , were as sick , as before .

W ITH a trembling weak hand , I comply'd with his will ,
While he laugh'd , in my face , at due sense of his Skill .
Don Mustacho , he cry'd — (and with arrogant mien ,
Came his surgeon , at call) " Here's a patient, too lean ;
" Take and purge him, one year, and then vomit him, two:
" All the third, let him blood — and, if that shou'd not do,
" Sweat him, six, nine, or twelve — and, at last, to work sure ,
" Let a blister all over make short with his cure . "
Oons! a Doctor , said I! — and slunk back, in a fright ,
Don , the Devil , and You , will demolish me quite!
Where's your conscience? D'you think such a poor dog, as I,
Can be tapp'd at all ends, and yet never run dry?
I'll complain to the college , and get 'em to trounce
A horse-doctor , whom all honest beasts wou'd renounce .

Now, ye learned and grave! you, who think , for our health ,
If a wretch deserves life , who has lost all his wealth ,
Let me hope due revenge , on this foe , to men's breath,
Who wou'd cure a consumption , by bleeding to death.