Classic Poem

If he gets Fame, who kills his Man or Two,
What more extensive Praise is due to you?
Who, while you should from Death and Anguish save,
Glut with promiscuous Crouds the yawning Grave.
A King that takes his Subjects Lives away,
Kills by those Laws which his own Conduct sway.
But like an arbitrary Victor, You,
Lawless, and uncontroul'd, your deadly Will pursue:
Nay, like the Turk , you ev'n in Absence kill,
And have your Mutes, your Orders to fulfil:
Like him, the Cause of Death too you conceal,
And Druggs, as fatal as his Bow-string, deal.
Your Patients, like his Musselmen , must die,
E'er their best Friends, or they themselves know why.
Thus more than Kings you do the Fates command,
And wider stretch your executing Hand;
They boast but Subjects Lives beneath their Sway,
But Princes your Prerogative obey.
Like them in This, the Land's Preservers meant,
You grow its Torture and its Punishment.
Who Tyrant like, prolonging Weak Mens Pains,
Still exercise your Pow'r, t' augment your Gains:
Like Tyrants too, your Visits cost us dear,
And give us Charges, as they give us Fear:
Like them too when we come within your Power,
You make those faulty were not so before;
Or striving our Infirmities to cure,
From your Assistance makes us worse endure.
Stomachs to warm, the Livers you annoy,
Livers to mend, the Stomachs you destroy;
Feavers, with Dropsies Deluges, abate,
Dropsies dry up with a new Feaver's Heat:
Starve one Disease to give another Food,
And harm one Part to do another good
You help the Head, but discompose the Heart,
And ease one Anguish by another's Smart.
You stagnant Plurisies with Dropsies drain,
Those Floods in dry Consumptions sink again.
You by removing Aches fix 'em more,
Make a great Gangrene of a little Sore:
The sounder Part, for the corrupted, vex,
And the whole Body, for one Part, perplex:
You with our Frames, like bungling Tinkers, do;
Patch up one Leak in Life, and burst out two.

Physick then aids, yet no Distempers cease,
The Cure at best is but a new Disease;
And Doctors Visits to their Patients grow
The dreadfull'st Visitations they can know;
Whilst for Reward they give Encrease of Pain,
And scrawl Prescriptions but the Purse to drain.
Such is their Art, and such their Itch of Gold;
And, poor as 'tis, th' Advice is ever sold.
The Slaves, like Plagues, in populous Cities stay,
But seldom take the Cottage in their Way.
For Doctors scorn to come where Fees are scant,
But leave us ev'ry thing, but Health, to want.