Apothecary

I do remember an apothecary, In tatter'd weeds, with overwhelming brows, Culling of simples. Meagre were his looks; Sharp misery had worn him to the bones; And in his needy shop a tortoise hung, An alligator stuff'd, and other skins Of ill-shap'd fishes; and about his shelves A beggarly account of empty boxes, Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds, Remnants of pack-thread; and old cakes of roses, Were thinly scatter'd, to make up a shew.