The Virginia Gazette

Epistle to Dr. in Williamsburg, sent with De Gols's Dissertation on Worms, when the Author was sick.

SINCE Worms your Study wholly now engage,
And fresh Amusements yield in ev'ry Page,
Since there your Faculties are all engross'd,
And in the mystic Speculation lost,
That Worms Diseases bring, and nothing else,
Say, if De Gols the Secret truly tells,
That what we call Colds, Vapours, Wind and Spleen,
Are only Vermicles receiv'd within :
Does thence the Weakness of my Limbs proceed ?
Do Worms there gender, or do Maggots breed ?
On that Hypothesis I oft revolve
Eager the speculative Whim to solve,
But no authoritative Proofs I find,
To free the Scruples of a Sceptic Mind.
No Sydenham, Harvey, Gibson, make it out,
Nor greater Mead or Ratcliffe clear the Doubt.
Useless to me is all the Skill of Friend,
Or Garth whom Phæbus and the Nine commend.
Nor Dutch Boerhaave the Secret does explain,
Nor the long-winded Commentators of his Train;
So to the Task inferior still I lie,
Like Cie under his Anatomy.
Galen, to thee belongs to make it shown,
(For sure the Use of Parts to thee is known)
If their first Rise these Animalcules draw
From viscous Humours, temper'd ill, and raw;
If callous Matter animates their Birth,
Or the lymphatic Veins send them forth ?
If the productive Marrow's genial Juice,
Or porous Bones such Insects will produce?
If from the last the Cause thou can't explore,
Suffenus must be maggotty all o'er :
If they proceed from juicy Flesh and plump,
You know who has 'em—in a portly Rump.
If their Effects the Part productive draws,
(For you by Symptoms always judge the Cause)
Tripea's sure, that Kitchen-Queen of Sluts,
Must have a countless Number in her Guts.
And old Lycisca, famous for each Art
That has ennobled ancient Belin's Mart,
Has rais'd (nor did disdain to practise young,)
' Ev'n Canker-Worms and Apis from her Tongue.
What if these Animalcules safe are kept,
Til thro' the pia Mater they have crept?
Must then the Labour of the teeming Brain
On other Parts bring Sympathy of Pain ?
Should it be so (would to kind Heav'n it pleas'd)
When this Epistle's done I should be eas'd.
But oh ! I fear, nor vainly apprehend,
The numerous Products that on One attend.
What idle Days must pass, what restless Nights,
When once the sympathetic Maggot bites !
Should you be bit, (as bit you'll be, I know)
They'll by Communication endless grow.
If Andry reckons right the copious Young,
We shall be near two hundred thousand strong
What Swarms of Whims and Maggots to endure!
More than the Quack of Abchurch-Lane can cure !
'Til they become (as now they almost are)
Kindly by Custom and familiar,
And we from them raise this consoling Use,
That Maggots only Maggots will produce.