PANACEA: Or, The Grand RESTORATIVE. By the Same. WELCOME to Baiae's streams, ye sons of spleen, Who rove from spa to spa — to shift the scene. While round the steaming fount you idly throng, Come, learn a wholsome secret from my song. Ye fair, whose roses feel th' approaching frost, And drops supply the place of spirits lost: Ye 'squires, who rack'd with gouts, at heav'n repine, Condemn'd to water for excess in wine: Ye portly cits, so corpulent and full, Who eat and drink 'till appetite grows dull: For whets and bitters then unstring the purse, Whilst nature more opprest grows worse and worse: Dupes to the craft of pill-prescribing leaches: You nod or laugh at what the parson preaches: Hear then a rhyming quack, — who spurns your wealth, And gratis gives a sure receipt for health. No more thus vainly roam o'er sea and land, When lo! a sovereign remedy at hand: 'Tis Temperance — stale cant! — 'Tis Fasting then; Heaven's antidote against the sins of men. Foul luxury's the cause of all your pain: To scour th' obstructed glands, abstain! abstain! Fast and take rest, ye candidates for sleep, Who from high food tormenting vigils keep: Fast and be fat — thou starveling in a gown: Ye bloated, fast — 'twill surely bring you down. Ye nymphs that pine o'er chocolate and rolls, Hence take fresh bloom, fresh vigour to your souls. Fast and fear not — you'll need no drop nor pill: Hunger may starve, excess is sure to kill.