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But, as the Fool that in reforming days
Would go to Mafs in jeft (as ftory fays)
Could not but think, to pay his fine was odd,
Since 'twas no form'd defign of ferving God;
So was I punish'd, as if full as proud,
As prone to ill, as negligent of good,
As deep in debt, without a thought to pay,
As vain, as idle, and as false, as they
Who live at Court, for going once that way!
Scarce was I enter'd, when, behold! there came
A thing which Adam had been pos'd tó name;
Noah had refus'd it lodging in his Ark,
Where all the Race of Reptiles might embark:
A verier monster, than on Afric's fhore
The fun e'er got, or flimy Nilus bore,




To Mass in jest, catch'd, was fain to disburse
'Two hundred markes which is the Statutes curfe,
Before he fcap'd; fo it pleas'd my destiny
(Guilty of my fin of going) to think me
As prone to all ill, and of good as forget-
ful, as proud, luftfull, and as much in debt,
As vain, as witless, and as false, as they
Which dwell in Court, for once going that way.

Therefore I fuffer'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:



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Or Sloane or Woodward's wondrous fhelves contain,
Nay, all that lying Travellers can feign.
The watch would hardly let him pass at noon,

At night would fwear him dropp'd 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,
Though coarse, was reverend, and though bare, was


The fuit, if by the fashion one might guess,
Was velvet in the youth of good Queen Befs,
But mere tuff-tafety what now remain'd;
So Time, that changes all things, had ordain'd!




Stranger than feven Antiquaries ftudies,
Than Africk Monsters, Guianaes rarities,
Stranger than strangers: one who, for a Dane,
In the Danes Maffacre had fure been slain,
If he had liv'd then; and without help dies,
When next the Prentices 'gainst strangers rise;
One, whom the watch at noon lets scarce go by;
One, to whom th' examining Juftice fure would cry,
Sir, by your Priesthood, tell me what you are?

His cloaths were strange, though coarse, 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 shall
See it plain rash a while, then nought at all.

Our fons fhall fee it leifurely decay,

First turn plain rafh, then vanish quite away.


This thing has travell'd, and speaks language too,
And knows what 's fit for every state to do;
Of whofe beft phrase and courtly accent join'd,
He forms one tongue, exotic and refin'd.

Talkers I 've learn'd to bear; Motteux I knew,
Henley himself I've heard, and Budgel too.
The Doctor's wormwood ftyle, the Hafh of tongues
A Pedant makes, the ftorm of Gonfon's lungs,
The whole Artillery of the terms of War,
And (all thofe Plagues in one) the bawling Bar;
These I could bear; but not a rogue fo civil,
Whofe tongue will compliment you to the devil.
A tongue, that can cheat Widows, cancel feores,
Make Scots fpeak treason, cozen fubtleft whores,




The thing hath travail'd, and faith, fpeaks all tongues, 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 difplease, Art can deceive, or hunger force my tast; But pedants motly tongue, foldiers bumbaft, Mountebanks drug-tongue, nor the terms of law, Are strong 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,

With royal Favourites in flattery vie,
And Oldmixon and Burnet both outlie.


He spies 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 blunderbufs difcharg'd on me! Permit (he cries) no ftranger to your fame To crave your fentiment, if's your name. What Speech efteem you moft? "The King's," faid I. But the beft words?" O Sir, the Dictionary." You mifs my aim! I mean the most acute And perfect Speaker?" Onflow, paft difpute." But, Sir, of writers? "Swift, for clofer ftyle, "But Hoadly for a period of a mile." Why yes, 'tis granted, these indeed may pafs: Good common linguists, and so Panurge was;

I love your Judgment, whom do you prefer
For the beft Linguist? and I feelily
Said that I thought Calepines Dictionary.
Nay, but of men, moft sweet Sir? Beza then,
Some Jefuits, and two reverend men


Of our two academies I nam'd.
He stopt me, and faid, Nay your Apostles were






Outflatter favourites, or outlie 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,

Nay troth th' Apostles (though perhaps too rough)
Had once a pretty gift of Tongues enough:
Yet these were all poor Gentlemen! I dare
Affirm, 'twas Travel made them what they were.
Thus, others talents having nicely shown,
He came by fure tranfition to his own:
Till I cry'd out, You prove yourself so able,
Pity! you was not Druggerman at Babel;
For had they found a linguist half so good,
I make no queftion but the Tower had stood.
"Obliging Sir! for Courts you fure were made:
Why then for ever bury'd in the shade?


Spirits like you, fhould fee and fhould be seen,
"The King would fmile on you-at least the Queen."
Ah, gentle Sir! you Courtiers fo cajole us-
But Tully has it, "Nunquam minus folus:"


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Good pretty Linguifts; fo Panurgus was.
Yet a poor Gentleman; all these
may pafs
By travail. Then, as if he would have fold
His tongue, he prais'd it, and fuch wonders told,
'That I was fain to say, If you had liv'd, Sir,
Time enough to have been Interpreter



To Babel's Bricklayers, fure the Tower had stood.
He adds, If of Court life you knew the good,
You would leave loneless. I faid, Not alone
My loneness is; but Spartanes fashion
To teach by painting drunkards doth not last
Now, Aretine's pictures have made few chafte;

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