Since you, dear Doctor, sav'd my Life,

To bless, by Turns, and plague my Wife,

In Conscience I'm oblig'd to do

Whatever is enjoin'd by You.

According, then, to your Command,

That I should search the Western Land,

For curious Things of every Kind,

And send you all that I could find,

I've ravag'd Air, Earth, Seas, and Caverns,

Men, Women, Children, Towns, and Taverns:

And greater Rarities can shew

Than Gresham's Children ever knew;

Which Carrier Dick shall bring you down,

Next Time his Waggon comes from Town.

First, I've three Drops of that same Shower

Which Jove in Danae's Lap did pour.

From Carthage brought, the Sword I'll send,

Where with Queen Dido made her End.

The Stone, whereby Goliah[sic] dy'd,

Which cures the Head-Ake,—well apply'd.

A Snake-Skin, which you may believe

The Devil cast who tempted Eve.

A Fig-Leaf Apron; 'tis the same

That Adam wore to hide his Shame;

But now wants dearning:—I've beside,

The Blow by which poor Abel dy'd.

A Whetstone, worn exceeding small,

Time us'd to sharp his Scythe withal.

The Pigeon stuff'd, which Noah sent,

To tell him where the Waters went.

A Ring I've got of Sampson's Hair,

Which Dalilah was wont to wear.

St. Dunstan's Tongs, as Story shews,

Which pinch'd the Devil by the Nose.

The Smock which Pen spun, when Ulysses

Was wantoning among his Misses.

The very Shaft, as all may see,

Which Cupid shot at Antony:

And, what beyond the rest I prize;

A Glance of Cleopatra's Eyes.

Some Strains of Eloquence, that hung

In Roman Times on Tully's Tongue,

Which undiscover'd still had lain,

But Cowper found them out again.

Then, I've, most curious to be seen,

A Scorpion's Bite—to cure the Spleen.

A Cord, that us'd with Skill will prove

A certain Remedy for Love.

A Root of that surprising Tree

Which brings back lost Virginity.

As Moore cures Worms in Stomach bred,

I've Pills cure Maggots in the Head:

With the Receipt too how to make them;

To you I leave the Time to take them.

I've got a Ray of Phoebus' Shine,

Found in the Bottom of a Mine.

A Powder rare, which rightly ta'en,

Will make old Women young again.

A Lawyer's Conscience, large and fair, 

Fit for a Judge himself to wear.

I've a choice Nostrum, how to make

An Oath — a — will not take.

In a Thumb-phial, you shall see,

Close cork'd, some Drops of Honesty.

Which, after searching Kingdoms round,

At last were in a Cottage found:

An Antidote, if such there be,

Against the Charms of Flattery. 

I han't[sic] collected any Care,

Of that there's Plenty every where:

But after wondrous Labour spent,

I've got one Grain of rich Content.

It is my Wish, it is my Glory,

To furnish your Nicknackatory:

I only beg, that when you shew 'em,

You'll tell your Friends to whom you owe 'em;

Which may your other Patients teach

To do as has done

Yours,

C.H.