For the Better. Imitated from Sir Roger L'Estrange. Anne Finch (née Kingsmill), countess of Winchilsea Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
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Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T94539 pp. 274-5 K076314.000 Winchilsea, Anne Kingsmill Finch, Countess of, 1661-1720. Miscellany poems, on several occasions: Written by the Right Honble Anne, Countess of Winchilsea. London printed for J. B. and sold by Benj. Tooke, William Taylor, and James Round 1713 pp. 137-139. [8],390p. ; 8⁰.

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For the Better . Imitated from Sir Roger L'Estrange . A Quack , to no true Skill in Physick bred , With frequent Visits curs'd his Patient's Bed ; Enquiring , how he did his Broths digest , How chim'd his Pulse , and how he took his Rest : If shudd'ring Cold by Burnings was pursu'd , And at what time the Aguish Fit renew'd . The waining Wretch , each day become more faint , In like proportion doubles his Complaint ; Now swooning Sweats he begs him to allay , Now give his Lungs more liberty to play , And take from empty'd Veins these scorching Heats away : Or if he saw the Danger did increase , To warn him fair , and let him part in Peace . My Life for yours , no Hazard in your Case The Quack replies ; your Voice , your Pulse , your Face , Good Signs afford , and what you seem to feel Proceeds from Vapours , which we'll help with Steel . With kindled Rage , more than Distemper , burns The suff'ring Man , who thus in haste returns : No more of Vapours , your belov'd Disease , Your Ignorance's Skreen , your What-you-please , With which you cheat poor Females of their Lives , Whilst Men dispute not , so it rid their Wives . For me , I'll speak free as I've paid my Fees ; My Flesh consumes , I perish by degrees : And as thro' weary Nights I count my Pains , No Rest is left me , and no Strength remains . All for the Better , Sir , the Quack rejoins : Exceeding promising are all these Signs . Falling-away , your Nurses can confirm , Was ne'er in Sickness thought a Mark of Harm . The want of Strength is for the Better still ; Since Men of Vigour Fevers soonest kill . Ev'n with this Gust of Passion I am pleas'd ; For they're most Patient who the most are seiz'd . But let me see ! here's that which all repels : Then shakes , as he some formal Story tells , The Treacle-water , mixt with powder'd Shells . My Stomach's gone ( what d'you infer from thence ? ) Nor will with the least Sustenance dispense . The Better ; for , where Appetite endures , Meats intermingle , and no Med'cine cures . The Stomach , you must know , Sir , is a Part — But , sure , I feel Death's Pangs about my Heart . Nay then Farewel ! I need no more attend The Quack replies . A sad approaching Friend Questions the Sick , why he retires so fast ; Who says , because of Fees I've paid the Last , And , whilst all Symptoms tow'rds my Cure agree , Am , for the Better , Dying as you see .