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Therefore I suffer'd this; towards me did run A thing more ftrange, than on Nile's flime the Sun E'er bred, or all which into Noah's Ark came: A thing which would have pos'd Adam to name: Stranger than seven Antiquaries ftudies, Than Africk Monsters, Guianaes rarities,

Stranger than ftrangers: one who, for a Dane,
In the Danes Massacre had fure been slain,
If he had liv'd then; and without help dies,
When next the Prentices 'gainft ftrangers rife ;
One whom the watch at noon lets scarce go by;
One, to whom the examining Juftice fure would cry,
Şir, by your Priesthood tell me what you are?
His cloaths were ftrange, tho' coarfe, and black,
though bare,

Sleeveless his jerkin was, and it had been
Velvet, but 'twas now (fo much ground was feen)
Become Tufftaffaty; and our children fhall

See it plain rash a while, then nought at all.
The thing hath travail'd, and, faith, fpeaks all

And only knoweth what to all States belongs,
Made of th' accents, and best phrase of all these,
He speaks one language. If ftrange meats difpleafe,

Scarce was I enter'd, when, behold! there came
A thing which Adam had been pos'd to name;
Noah had refus'd it lodging in his Ark,
Where all the Race of Reptiles might embark :
A verier monfter, than on Africk's fhore
The fun e'er got, or flimy Nilus bore,


Or Sloane or Woodward's wondrous shelves contain,
Nay, all that lying Travellers can feign.
The watch would hardly let him pass at noon,
At night, would fwear him dropt out of the Moon.
One whom the mob, when next we find or make
A popish plot, fhall for a Jefuit take,
And the wife Justice starting from his chair
Cry, By your Priesthood tell me what you are?


Such was the wight: Th'apparel on his back, Tho' coarse, was rev'rend, and tho' bare, was black: The fuit, if by the fashion one might guess, Was velvet in the youth of good Queen Befs, But mere tuff-taffety what now remain'd; So Time, that changes all things, had ordain'd! Our fons fhall fee it leisurely decay,

First turn plain rash, then vanish quite away.


This thing has travel'd, fpeaks each language too, And knows what's fit for ev'ry ftate to do;

Of whose best phrafe and courtly accent join'd,
He forms one tongue, exotic and refin’d.



Art can deceive, or hunger force my taft;
But pedants motly tongue, foldiers bumbaft,
Mountebanks drug-tongue, nor the terms of law,
Are ftrong enough preparatives to draw
Me to hear this, yet I must be content

With his tongue, in his tongue call'd Complement:
In which he can win widows, and pay scores,
Make men speak treason, couzen subtleft whores,
Out-flatter favourites, or out-lie either

Jovius, or Surius, or both together.

He names me, and comes to me; I whisper, God, How have I finn'd, that thy wrath's furious Rod, This fellow, chufeth me! He faith, Sir, I love your Judgment, whom do you prefer For the best Linguift? and I feelily Said that I thought Calepines Dictionary. but of men, moft fweet Sir? Beza then, Nay, Some Jesuits, and two reverend men Of our two academies I nam'd: here He ftopt me, and faid, Nay your Apostles were

Talkers I've learn'd to bear; Motteux I knew, 50
Henley himself I've heard, and Budgel too.
The Doctor's Wormwood ftyle, the Hash of tongues
A Pedant makes, the ftorm of Gonfon's lungs,
The whole Artill'ry of the terms of War,

And (all thofe plagues in one) the bawling Bar: 55
Thefe I could bear; but not a rogue so civil,
Whose tongue will compliment you to the devil.
A tongue, that can cheat Widows, cancel fcores,
Make Scots speak treason, cozen fubtlest whores,
With royal Favourites in flatt'ry vie,
And Oldmixon and Burnet both out-lie.


He fpies me out; I whisper, Gracious God! What fin of mine could merit fuch a rod ? That all the fhot of dulnefs now must be From this thy blunderbuss discharg'd on me! Permit (he cries) no ftranger to your fame To crave your sentiment if -'s your name. What Speech esteem you most?" The King's, faid I.” But the best words?" O Sir, the Dictionary." You miss my aim; I mean the most acute And perfect Speaker?" Onflow, past dispute." But, Sir, of writers? "Swift, for clofer ftyle, "But Ho**y for a period of a mile.". Why yes, 'tis granted, thefe indeed may pass: Good common linguifts, and fo Panurge was; Nay troth th'Apoftles (tho' perhaps too rough). Had once a pretty gift of Tongues enough:




Good pretty Linguifts; fo Panurgus was,
Yet a poor Gentleman; all these may pass
By travail. Then, as if he would have fold
His tongue, he prais'd it, and fuch wonders told,
That I was fain to fay, If you had liv'd, Sir,
Time enough to have been Interpreter
To Babels Bricklayers, fure the Tower had ftood,
He adds, If of Court life you knew the good,
You would leave lonelefs. I said, Not alone
My loneness is; but Spartanes fashion
To teach by painting drunkards doth not laft
Now, Aretines pictures have made few chafte;
No more can Princes Courts (though there be few
Better pictures of vice) teach me virtue.

He like to a high-stretcht Lute-string squeaks, O

"Tis fweet to talk of Kings. At Westminster,
Said I, the man that keeps the Abby tombs,
And for his price, doth with whoever comes
Of all our Harrys, and our Edwards talk,
From King to King, and all their kin can walk;

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