A new and Certain Cure for Cancers: Or Infallibility of Advertising Doctors

Here lies a fool flat on his back, The victim of a Cancer quack; Who lost his money and his life By plaister, caustic, and by knife. The case was this—a pimple rose, South east a little from his nose, Which daily reden'd and grew bigger, As too much drinking gave it vigour. A score of gossips soon ensure Full threescore certain modes of cure: But yet the full-fed pimple still Defy'd all petticoated skill; When fortune led him to peruse A hand-bill in the weekly news, Sign'd by six fools of different sorts, All cur'd of Cancers made of warts; Who recommend with due submission This cancer-doctor as magician. Fear wing'd his flight to find the quack, And prove his cancer-curing knack: But on his way he found another, A second advertising brother, But as much like him, as an owl Is unlike every handsome fowl; Whose fame had rais'd as broad a fog, And of the two the greater hog; Who us'd a still more magic plaister, That sweat forsooth, and cur'd the faster. This doctor view'd with moony eyes And scowl'd up face the pimple's size; Then christen'd it in solemn answer, And cried "This pimple's name is CANCER! But courage friend — I see you're pale — My sweating plaisters never fail. I've sweated hundreds out with ease, With roots as long as maple trees, And never fail'd in all my trials— Behold these samples here in vials, Preserv'd, to shew my wond'rous merits, Just as my liver is—in spirits! For Twenty Joes the cure is done"— The bargain's struck—the plaister on; Which knaw'd the cancer at its leisure, And pain'd his face above all measure: But still the pimple spread the faster, And swell'd like toad that meets disaster. Thus foil'd, the doctor gravely swore It was a right rose cancer sore; Then stuck his probe beneath the beard, And shew'd them where the leaves appear'd; And rais'd the patient's drooping spirits, By praising up the plaister's merits. Quoth he, the roots now scarcely stick, I'll fetch her out, like crab or stick, And make it rendezvous, next trial, With six more plagues in my old vial— Then purg'd him pale with jalap drastic, And next applies th' infernal caustic: But yet this 'semblance bright of hell Serv'd but to make the patient yell, And gnawing on with fiery pace Devour'd one broadside of his face. Courage; 'tis done the doctor cried, And quick th' incision knife applied, Which with three cuts made such a hole, Out fled the patient's tortur'd soul. Go, readers, gentle, eke and simple, If you have wart, or corn, or pimple, To quack infallible apply; Here's room enough for you to lie— His skill triumphant still prevails, For Death's a CURE that never fails.