True Quack in Poetry, as Physick, Thou!
Who to our Bane do'st thy Advice bestow,
That Thou, not We, may'st better by it grow.
Like Quacks, you live by Those you cause to die,
And damn to gain your Immortality.
In vain you strive, by murth'ring the Esteem
Of Wits and Poets, to be thought of them.
As Indian Fools believe they shall enjoy
The Parts, and Pow'r, of him they can destroy.
But you have Reason to fall out with Wit,
Since, e'er against it you this Satyr writ,
You always scribbled in Despite of it.
If to mad Poets you'd a Doctor be,
Be first from their Poetic Frenzy free:
You of your Readers do true Patients make,
Who your Advice against their Stomachs take.
Your Verse, like your Prescriptions, is so mean,
That, like bad Musick, it provokes the Spleen.

Then spare your Satyr, gentle Sir, least we
From your Correction much more mad should be;
Since, like a Quack, you make us less endure
From our Distemper than your rugged Cure.
Your ill Example makes your Doctrine vain,
Which our ill Writing would with worse restrain.
As Sparta once her drunken Sons Excess
Restrain'd by more egregious Sottishness.

Your Verse should thus the best Dissuasive be
Against ill Writing, as worse Poetry.
So when the noblest Precepts can't prevail
To mend us, sad Examples never fail.