Tom SAFFOLD Dead, that famous Operator,
And did no Blazing Star foretel the Matter?
No angry Comet with bright Flames her Arse-on,
Foretel the Death of so Renown'd a Person?
Ye ill-bred Stars, ye know when he was Living,
He was each Day from you some Skill receiving;
And could ye not afford one Link Celestial,
To Light him from Black-Fryers House Terrestrial?
For very well ye Flaming Eights did know,
'Twas a dark way the Doctor had to go:
But we, alas! in vain his Absence mourn;
For he is gone, thence never to Return
To's House again, who with his Bills alone,
Did with Bumfodder furnish half the Town:
So Skill'd in Drugs and Verse, 'twas hard to show it,
Whether was best, the Doctor or the Poet.
For if one Read his Rimes, a Stool would follow,
As sure as if he did a Bolus swallow:
So for a double use they serv'd for some,
First give a Purge, and then to wipe the Bum.
His Skill in Physick did his Fame advance,
Tho some accuse him of dull Ignorance:
Powder of Post may sometimes do the Trick,
As well as Rhubarb, Senna, Agarick;
For let the sad Disease be what it will,
The Patients Faith helps more than Doctors Skill;
Besides he had so quick, so short a way,
No Patient under him long Grieving lay;
For was it Fever, Pox, or Calenture,
His Drugs could either quickly Kill or Cure.
Sometimes perhaps his Guilded Pill prevails;
But if that fail, the Dead can tell no Tales.
What if his Medicines thousands Lives should spill?
Hangmen and Quacks are Authoriz'd to Kill.
Howl and Lament ye who have had th' mishap,
While ye for Pleasure sought, to find a Clap;
Who now in Sweating-Tubs devoutly Drivel;
Faith Sparks, your Doctor's left you to the Devil;
Throw Snot about and shed your briny Tears:
Ye Shadwel Dames and Wapping Wastcoteers,
Who blushing with your Urinals of Water,
Came to his House to understand the Matter.
Lament ye Damsels of our London City;
(Poor unprovided Girls) tho Fair and Witty,
Who maske, would to his House in couples come,
To understand your Matrimonial Doom;
To know what kind of Men you were to Marry,
And how long time, poor things, you were to Tarry:
Your Oracle is Silent, none can tell
On whom his Astrologick Mantle fell;
For he when Sick refus'd all Doctor's Aid,
And only to his Pills Devotion Paid;
Yet it was surely a most sad Disaster,
The Sawcy Pills at last should Kill their Master.

His EPITAPH.
Here Lyes the Corps of Thomas Saffold,
By Death, in spite of Physick, Baffl'd;
Who leaving off his working Loom,
Did Learned Doctor soon become.
To Poetry he made pretence,
Is plain to any man's own Sense:
But he when Living thought it Sin
To hide his Talent in Napkin;
Now Death does Poet Doctor crowd
Within the Limits of a Shroud.