On looking over a collection of MSS. which has lain untouched for many
years, I have lighted on the accompanying ballad. Of its source I know
nothing; nor do I recollect how it fell into my hands. I have never seen it
in print. The author, fancifully enough, imagines the various editions of
Shakspeare brought in succession to the sick-bed of the immortal bard, and
has curiously detailed the result of their several prescriptions.
If you do me the favour of giving it insertion in your valuable "N. & Q." I
shall feel obliged; and I think that your numerous Shakspeare
correspondents, to some of whom it may be unknown, will not be displeased
at seeing it in the columns of your interesting journal. The editorial
period to which the ballad is brought down will tolerably fix its date:
Old Shakspeare was sick--for a doctor he sent--
But 'twas long before any one came;
Yet at length his assistance Nic Row did present;
Sure all men have heard of his name.
As he found that the poet had tumbled his bed;
He smooth'd it as well as he could;
He gave him an anodyne, comb'd out his head,
But did his complaint little good.
Doctor Pope to incision at once did proceed,
And the Bard for the simples he cut;
For his regular practice was always to bleed,
Ere the fees in his pocket he put.
Next Theobald advanced, who at best was a quack,
And dealt but in old women's stuff;
Yet he caused the physician of Twick'nam to pack,
And the patient grew cheerful enough.
Next Hanmer, who fees ne'er descended to crave,
In gloves lily-white did advance;
To the Poet the gentlest of purges he gave,
And, for exercise, taught him to dance.
One Warburton, then, tho' allied to the Church,
Produced his alterative stores;
But his med'cines the case so oft left in the lurch
That Edwards[1] kick'd him out of doors.
Next Johnson arrived to the patient's relief,
And ten years he had him in hand;
But, tired of his task, 'tis the gen'ral belief,
He left him before he could stand.
Now Capel drew near, not a Quaker more prim,
And number'd each hair in his pate;
By styptics, call'd stops, he contracted each limb,
And crippled for ever his gait.
From Gopsal then strutted a formal old goose,
And he'd cure him by inches, he swore;
But when the poor Poet had taken one dose,
He vow'd he would swallow no more.
But Johnson, determined to save him or kill,
A second prescription display'd;
And, that none might find fault with his drop or his pill,
Fresh doctors he call'd to his aid.
First, Steevens came loaded with black-letter books,
Of fame more desirous than pelf;
Such reading, observers might read in his looks,
As no one e'er read but himself.
Then Warner, by Plautus and Glossary known,
And Hawkins, historian of sound[2];
Then Warton and Collins together came on,
For Greek and potatoes renown'd.
With songs on his pontificalibus pinn'd,
Next, Percy the Great did appear;
And Farmer, who twice in a pamphlet had sinn'd,
Brought up the empirical rear.
"The cooks the more num'rous the worse is the broth,"
Says a proverb I well can believe;
And yet to condemn them untried I am loth,
So at present shall laugh in my sleeve.
RIGDUM FUNNIDOS.