FOR He, that made, must new create us, <br />Ere Seneca, or Epictetus, <br />With all their serious Admonitions, <br />Can, for the Spleen, prove good Physicians. <br />The Heart's unruly Palpitation <br />Will not be laid by a Quotation; <br />Nor will the Spirits move the lighter <br />For the most celebrated Writer. <br />Sweats, Swoonings, and convulsive Motions <br />Will not be cur'd by Words, and Notions. <br /> <br />Then live, old Brown! with thy Chalybeats, <br />Which keep us from becoming Idiots. <br />At Tunbridge let us still be Drinking, <br />Though 'tis the Antipodes to Thinking: <br />Such Hurry, whilst the Spirit's flying, <br />Such Stupefaction, when 'tis dying; <br />Yet these, and not sententious Papers, <br />Must brighten Life, and cure the Vapours<br /><br />Anne Kingsmill Finch<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fragment-at-tunbridge-wells/
