Classic Poem

I hope I sha'n't be blam'd if I am proud
That I'm admitted in this learned croud,
To be proud of a fortune so sublime,
Methinks is rather duty than a crime,
Were not my thoughts exalted in this state,
I shou'd not make thereof due estimate,
And sure one cause of Adam's fall was this,
He knew not the just worth of Paradise,
But with this honour I'm so satisfied,
The ancients were not more when diefy'd
For this transcends all common happiness,
And is a glory that exceeds excess
This, this, makes me a fam'd physician grow,
As Saul 'mongst prophets, turn'd a prophet too.
The sturdy gout, which all male power withstands,
Is overcome by my soft female hands
not Deb'ra, Judeth, or Semiramis,
Can boast of conquests half so great as this,
More than they slew, I save in this diseas.
Now blessings on you all, ye sons of art,
Who, what your selves ne'er knew to me impart
Thus gold which byth' suns influence does grow
Does that ith' market Phoebus cannot do.
Bless'd be the time, and bless'd my pains and fate
Which introduc'd me to a place so great,
False Strephon too, I almost now cou'd bless,
Whose crimes conduc'd to this my happiness.
Had he been true, I'd liv'd in sottish ease;
Ne'er study'd ought, but how to love and please,
No other flame, my virgin brest had fir'd,
But love and life, together had expir'd,
But when false wretch, he his forc'd kindness pay'd
With less devotion than e'er sexton pray'd
Fooll that I was to sigh, weep, almost dye,
Little forthinking of this present joy,
Thus happy brides shed tears they know not why
Vainly we blame this cause or laugh at that,
Whilst the effect with its how, where, and what,
Lys embryo ith' womb of time or fate.
Of future things we very little know,
And 'tis heav'ns kindess too, that it is so.
Were not our souls with ignorance so buoy'd
They'd sink with fear, or overset with pride.
So much for ignorance there may be said,
That large encomiums, might thereof be made,
But I've degress'd too far, so must return,
And make the medick art my whole concern,
Since by its aid, I've gain'd this mighty place,
Amongst th'immortal Æsculapian race.
That if my muse will needs officious be,
She must to this become a votary.
In all our songs, its attributes reherse,
Write Recipes, (as Ovid law) in verse
To measure we'll reduce febrifick heat,
And make the pulses in true number beat,
Asthma, and phthisick shall chant lays most sweet,
The gout and Rickets too shall run on feet,:
In fine, my Muse, such wonders we will doe,
That to our art, mankind their ease shall ow,
Than praise, and pleas our selves in doing so;
For since the learn'd exalt and own our fame,
It is no arrogance to do the same,
But due respects and complaisance to them.