The Doctor turned Justice.

Llewellin, though physician to the King,
Found he was grown a drug both Fall and Spring;
Nor on one fee through the whole year could seize,
(Not in an epidemical disease).
No doubtful maid did at his chamber call,
So much as to discuss her urinal;
No lord to treat a clap would him endure,
No lady an abortion to procure;
And in whole Court the most obsequious breech
From his unskilful hand disdained a leech.
He knew not how a poison to instil:
(What doctor e'er could neither cure nor kill?)
Languishing thus to live, and almost spent,
Impatient he, because he had no patient,
What shall he do? Shall he himself disgrace,
To paste p pills at every p g-place?
Or in this dignity, and at this age,
Draw vicious teeth, and drink toads on the stage?
Ingenious hunger rather does suggest
To turn a country-justice were his best;
With clerk and 'pothecary to divide,
(Gizzard on one, liver on t' other side).
While bribes and fees the people pay in awe,
(In dread both of his physic and his law):
Although Hippocrates ne'er sent to gaol,
Nor Galen, ever that we read, took bail.
This he resolves: and under Bridgeman's wax,
To Wycombe in his climateric packs;
Where, that he also might their Mayor be chose,
The short remainder of his pence he sows.
And now, instead of clyster-pipe and stool,
The sword and mace usher the formal fool.
To gain and power thus far his way was plain,
(Unbridled power, uninterrupted gain,)
When, see the spite, a Quaker spoils his aim:
(So agues still are the physician's shame,)
Rants from a cobbler, grown a doctor there,
As from a doctor, Llewellin a Mayor;
It seemed that Fate had sent him to undo
The magistrate, and the physician too.
But soon our Wycombe armourer transplants
To gaol at Aylesbury his rival Rants;
Two birds he hopes to hit thus with one sling,
The Quaker first, and by him doctor King;
And yet what justice ever could before
Remove a nuisance to his neighbour's door?
Fanatics thus the bishop's mark are made,
Not out of zeal, but as they spoil their trade.
Henceforth, ye sons of Æsculapius high,
Lay your Sennectus and Riverius by:
If you would thrive, then learn to practise thus,
No recipe is like a mittimus.