is to be by him expended in preparing and delivering medicines to the poor at their intrinfic value, in fuch manner, and at fuch times, and by fuch orders and directions, as by the major part of the fubfcribers hereto fhall in writing be hereafter appointed and directed for that purpose.
In witness whereof we have hereunto fet our hands and feals, this twenty-fecond day of December, 1696.
Tho. Millington, Præfes.
Tho. Burwell, Elect. and
Cenfor.
Sam. Collins, Elect.
Edw. Browne, Elect.
Rich. Torlefs, Elect, and
Edw. Hulfe, Elect.
Tho. Gill, Cenfor.
Will. Dawes, Cenfor.
Jo. Hutton.
Rob. Brady.
Hans Sloane.
Rich. Morton.
John Hawys.
Ch. Harel.
Rich. Robinfon.
John Bateman.
Walter Mills.
Dan. Coxe.
Henry Sampfon.
Thomas Gibson.
Charles Goodall.
Edm. King.
Sam. Garth.
Barnh. Soame.
Denton Nicholas.
Jofeph Gaylard.
John Woollafton.
Steph. Hunt.
Oliver Horfeman.
Rich. Morton, Jun.
David Hamilton.
Hen. Morelli.
Walter Harris.
William Briggs.
Th. Colladon.
Martin Lifter.
Jo. Colbatch.
Bernard Connor.
W. Cockburn.
J. le Feure.
DESIRING MY OPINION OF HIS POEM.
ASK me not, friend, what I approve or blame;
Perhaps I know not why I like, or damn;
I can be pleas'd; and I dare own I am.
I read thee over with a lover's eye;
Thou haft no faults, or I no faults can fpy;
Thou art all beauty, or all blindness I.
Critics and aged beaux of fancy chaste,
Who ne'er had fire, or el'e whofe fire is past,
Muft judge by rules what they want force to tafle.
I would a poet, like a mistress, try,
Not by her hair, her hand, her nofe, her eye;
But by fome nameless power, to give me joy.
The nymph has Grafton's, Cecil's, Churchill's charms,
If with refiftlefs fires my foul fhe warms,
With balm upon her lips, and raptures in her arms.
Such is thy genius, and fuch art is thine,
Some fecret magic works in every line;
We judge not, but we feel the power divine.
Where all is juft, is beauteous, and is fair,
Diftinctions vanish of peculiar air.
Loft in our pleasure, we enjoy in you
Lucretius, Horace, Sheffield, Montague.
And yet 'tis thought, fome critics in this town,
By rules to all, but to themselves, unknown,
Will damn thy verse, and justify their own.
Why let them damn: were it not wondrous hard
Facetious Mirmil * and the City Bard,
So near ally'd in learning, wit, and skill,
Should not have leave to judge, as well as kill?
Nay, let them write; let them their forces join,
And hope the motley piece may rival thine.
Safely defpife their malice, and their toil,
Which vulgar ears alone will reach, and will defile.
Be it thy generous pride to please the best,
Whose judgement, and whose friendship, is a teft.
With learned Hans thy healing cares be join'd;
Search thoughtful Ratcliffe to his inmost mind;
Unite, restore your arts, and fave mankind:
Whilft all the bufy Mirmils of the town
Envy our health, and pine away their own.
Whene'er thou would'st a tempting Mufe
Judicious Walsh can beft direct her rage.
To Somers and to Dorfet too fubmit,
And let their ftamp immortalize thy wit.
Confenting Phœbus bows, if they approve,
And ranks thee with the foremost bards above,
Whilft thefe of right the deathlefs laurel fend,
Be it my humble bufinefs to commend
The faithful, honeft man, and the well-natur'd friend..
TO MY FRIEND DR. GARTH,
THE AUTHOR OF THE DISPENSARY.
To praise your healing art, would be in vain ;
The health you give, prevents the poet's pen.
Sufficiently confirm'd is your renown,
And I but fill the chorus of the town.
That let me waive, and only now admire
The dazzling rays of your poetic fire:
Which its diffufive virtue does difpenfe,
In flowing verfe, and elevated fense.
The town, which long has swallow'd foolish verse,
Which poetafters every where rehearse,
Will mend their judgement now, refine their tafte,
And gather up th' applause they threw in waste.
The play-house fhan't encourage false sublime,
Abortive thoughts, with decoration-rhyme.
The fatire of vile fcribblers fhall appear
On none, except upon themselves, fevere:
While yours contemns the gall of vulgar fpite;
And when you feem to smile the most, you bite.
S when the people of the northern zone
Find the approach of the revolving fun,
Pleas'd and reviv'd, they fee the new-born fight,
And dread no more eternity of night:
Thus we, who lately, as of fummer's heat,
Have felt a dearth of poetry and wit,
Once fear'd, Apollo would return no more
From warmer climes to an ungrateful shore.
But you, the favourite of the tuneful Nine,
Have made the God in his full luftre shine;
Our night have chang'd into a glorious day;
And reach'd perfection in your first effay.
So the young eagle, that his force would try,
Faces the fun, and towers it to the sky.
Others proceed to art by flow degrees,
Aukward at first, at length they faintly please;
And still, whate'er their firft efforts produce,
'Tis an abortive, or an infant Mufe:
Whilst yours, like Pallas, from the head of Jove,
Steps out full-grown, with nobleft pace to move.
What ancient poets to their subjects owe,
Is here inverted, and this owes to you:
You found it little, but have made it great,
They could defcribe, but you alone create.
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