ODE XI

“To bleed or not to bleed — that is the question!

Whether‘ tis better in our beds to suffer

The slights and snufflings of outrageous doctors,

Or by the Lancet — quit them.”

In ancient days divines, in dismal humour,

With disputation kept the presses going;

Wrangled about some wonderous mighty things

The difference “‘ twixt a shadow and a shade,”

And scribbled much of “way of man with maid.”

At length, as fades the crown

Their bludgeons they lay down;

And you, wise doctors, take the wrangle up,

Each cursing all who will not drink his cup.

Ah, Philadelphians! still to knaves a prey,

Take your old philosophic way;

When from the native spring you seiz'd your draught,

Health bloom'd on every face, and all was gay —

Dejection was remote — and Nature laugh'd.

A question now, of mighty weight is put,

Whether, to bleed a man is best, or not,

When scarce three drops ( or not one drop ) remains

In the poor devil's veins!—

Well! you decide, who are in Galen read —

Take Boorhaave's, if you please — whatever system —

( Why are men such that doctors can enlist‘ em? )

Whether your methods be the right or wrong,

And man's existence shorten or prolong,

We feverish fellows, must be — put to bed.

The secret has leak'd out — be cautious doctors

( The whole shall be disclos'd in room with lock'd doors )

Old women, with their simple herbs and teas

( And asking hardly two-pence for their fees )

Disarm this dreadful epidemic fever;

Make it as tame and innocent,

( Whether home-bred or from West Indies sent )

As Continental soldier, turn'd to Weaver.