RUB for RUB: OR, AN ANSWER TO A PHYSICIANS PAMPHLET, STYLED, The Stroker stroked.
COme hither, Doctor, and behold in short
Something of truth, Sir, touching your report.
You with your beastly stories would delude
The Faith and Wisdom of the Multitude.
Ha, ha, Physician, is your envy such?
Are you so touchy, yet not brook a touch?
You play'd the Poet but wer't much deceiv'd,
To think your Fictions would be believ'd.
We laugh and scorn thy envious Libel, pish,
Tis but the Froath of Malice, Womanish.
Whip behind Coachman, crys this envious Boy
Because he cannot, what that doth, enjoy.
You envy't as his Happiness, and grutch
Because you cannot grope where he doth touch:
Doctor, your Practice is too scant I trow,
Which makes you wound (anothers Credit) so.
And so you're in an Error most profound,
For he in Duty ought to Heal, not Wound.
Alas, his Craft he cannot always smoother,
We see he doth the one as oft as th' other:
Doctor, you could not when you would defame,
You look't asquint, Sir, and so miss'd your aim.
True, you strook high, but wound you were not able,
For what you strook at was invulnerable.
Twas a Consumption in the Purse, I fear,
That made the Remedy, prescrib'd a Jear.
As once
Demetrius fearing loss of Gain
Strove to confound what Heav'n did maintain.
Alas, you fear your Craft should come to nought,
Because such Wonders by his Hands are wrought,
His Deeds pronounce his VVorth: But let us know
VVhat Honour we, to you Physicians owe.
VVe're not beholding unto you I'm sure,
Not you, but 'tis our Money gives us Cure.
Ye're Rhetoricians in our Cure, we see,
Tis wholly done by a
Synecdoche.
Some Griefs you throughly Cure, and they are these;
A rich mans Golden Plurisie finds ease.
And presently you Cure, as 'twere by slight,
A heavy hearted Purse and make it light.
Doctor, your Art to every Grief extends,
But yet you do your Cures for your own ends.
A Friend of mine to prove the Doctor came,
And brought a Glass of Urin in's own name.
He took the Glass, he shak't it, then reply'd,
A Fever strong, but faith the Doctor ly'd.
A Doctor for a Horse I swear he is,
The feav'rish Urin was a Horses Piss.
And by this instance, we may plainly see,
You're the Deceiver, Doctor, and not he.
Then hee's a
Jesuit, but you're in the wrong:
Physician, Cure thy self, thy Tongue's too long.
Rather than nought, the very Truth you'l slander,
The Doctor's want of Practice makes him maunder.
But yet his envious Fictive Brain's not able,
To droll Reality into a Fable.
His hand is truly powerful whose stroke
Twice dispossest and made the Devil smoak.
VVhat if he clip'd and clap'd, what's that to you?
You've clip'd and clap'd, and have been clap'd too.
For, if to me my Author have not ly'd,
Though nor, o'th' back, he once was Scarifi'd.
Your foul report betrays you, and in truth,
I fear the Doctor hath a liquorish Tooth.
Her Stocking off, he strokes her Lilly-foot,
What then? The Doctor had a minde to do't.
Her Legs, her Knees, her Thighs, a little higher.
And there's the Doctors Center of Desire;
VVhere he, as I for certain understand,
Hath searched many a wenches Country-land.
One VVench, I hear, and her Discase was this,
And that no strange one is, the
Green-sickness,
He saw the Maid was in a needy mood,
He strait presum'd a
Clyster might be good:
He lays her on the bed, O beastly story!
And then thrusts in his long
Suppository,
And tells her on his Faith, deny't who can,
Nothing so good for her, as
th' Oyl of Man.
And then I'm sure, if what is true, were spoke,
She gave him
tuch for
tuch, and
stroke for
stroke.
But passing this, and many o'th' like sort,
Doctor, your Practice hath no good report;
And all suppose by your obscene Narration,
Your
Brains and
Back want a severe Purgation,
Your Pamphlet false, Reason it self implyes,
For 'twas all Poetry, and therefore Lyes.
Thus you and I upon the Matter
Strike,
You give a
Rub, and I Return the
Like.
LONDON, Printed in the Year 1666.