Vindiciae pharmacapolae, or An answer to the doctors complaints against apothecaries. Ou, poiei eas mia chelidōn

'TIs strange to me, to see Revenging Sheets,
Lambs-Conduit Paper, that in Duel meets
On every Stall, and threaten passers by,
Who without Doctors Stamp use Pharmacy.

I have not seen a Month of Years, and so
Th' Arcana's of these dayes I Dare not know;
Nor dare I now presume to make presage,
How present Influences Threat this Age.

But I have heard, that 'tis not long agon,
Since Chaos striv'd for Resurrection;
When Babel lik'd to have been built again,
Not by dull Bricklayers, but Men of Brain.

The Lawyers left their Littletons, to Found
Committee Systems on Rebellion's ground:
The Clergy-men descry'd new Sects of Gods,
Which made the Desks and Pulpits fall at odds;
But they 're now Friends, thanks to a Calmer Fate,
Propitious to an almost ruin'd State.

And now Physicians, (whom reports do say,
By Licence have Authority to slay)
Do worry one another, and do strive
To kill themselves, and others keep alive:
Which is a madness, mad as mad may be;
Saver of others is Felo de se.

And though we do not claim to be a share
Of Doctor's Dignity, of Art we are;
And justly may be call'd (without offence)
Appendix to their Practice, though not Pence.

Let them consult together how to goe,
When the Nice Artery of Little Toe
Is hurt, which (by Physicians) hath been said
To Gangrene, and prove mortal in the Head.
Apothecaries Trade is undergon,
For a support, not to be trampled on.

'Tis true, this latter age has far out-done
What former did, or rather but begun.
Great Helmont is reviv'd, and who can be
More Volatile, and full of Salt than he.
He's try'd by Fire; and thence it seems to some,
Gallen's but Physick's Caput Mortuum.

What if Gallenick Doctor (Eying Pelf)
Doth send for Simples, simple as himself;
And order Antique Compounds, which Innure
To Dissolution, rather than to Cure.

What if their Bills upon our Files do meet,
Till theirs and ours make Patients Winding-sheet:
We're not in Fault, we rather are excus'd,
Good Druggs by us are sold, by them abus'd.
We in the Common Fate of Trade do stand;
Buying and Selling doth support the Land.
We but Prepare, Great Doctor doth Advise,
He puts the Stuff in that puts out the Eyes.
We hear not Paracelsian disagree,
Though we should know his Art as well as he.

Perhaps some Mandat-Doctors poor are grown,
And now would Marr our Trade, to mend their own.
What would the Innes of Court say, if they see,
One person Counsel, Clerk, Atturney be.
Like the Welsh Parish, without more ado,
Had one man Curate, Clark, and Sexton too.
I thought the Club-Divines had been forgot,
Let Club-Physicians have Smectymnuan's lot.

But oh intollerable! Doctor cryes,
He sees too much, pray put out both his eyes;
He practise Physick, sans Physicians Aide,
Learned PROFESSION is outfac'd by Trade:
He's grown a Chymist too, and so despise
Our Great Diana whence our Profit rise.

To this we Answer, Good Sir Methodist,
This is no Eye-sore to the Spagarist;
Nor to those Sons of Art, whose Care and Pains
Regard the Publick, not their Private gains:
Who in the greatest: search of Nature's Deep,
Revive Mysterious Truths, long layn asleep.
We know that Pyrotechny bears a part,
As well in our Trade, as in your Art.
'Tis that which ALL of us are taught to do;
Let half the Doctors in the Town say so.
Nay let them say, after their Bills search'd be,
If half th' Ingredients they did ever see:
So that if' Pothecaries must go down,
You'le banish half the Doctors from the Town.

And now to Answer for the Practick part,
Laid to our charge, and so much griev'd your heart;
Though it perhaps might well be Justify'd,
By changing Trades with you, yet 'tis deny'd;
Unless we must not do what things are Common
With every Keeper, Nurse, or Good Old Woman,
Without the help of Doctor, whose Advice
Is (as himself esteems it) of such Price,
That such Distempers as by Us are Cur'd,
Are easier borne, than Doctors Fees indur'd.
Besides our great Complainers are too high,
Or should be, then to stoop and catch a Fly.

But it's believ'd the noy se that's sent about
T' amuse the people, and affright the rout,
Is like fierce Corbet's Plea for Toleration,
To only such as are of his Perswasion;
Yet cannot Corbet shew how many more,
Are only of his mind, no, not a score.

Let these Great Dons that thus their Names have rais'd
By others Ruines, and would fain be prais'd,
That into Natures Crevises have div' d,
And unto great Attainments have arriv'd,
Let them but meet, and parly, and then see,
First, if but any Ten of them agree;
Let those Ten Doctors, Ten (no Doctors) try,
Which are the most expert in Pharmacy.
Then let them search how many can prepare,
Their proper Medicines without our Care;
Degrade the rest, and make but them to run,
And for their Companies we'le be undone.

By T. C. Philo-Pharmacopeiae.