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I felt th' infection flide from him to me;
As in the pox, fome give it to get free;
And quick to fwallow me, methought I faw
One of our Giant Statues ope its jaw.

In that nice Moment, as another Lye
Stood juft a-tilt, the Minifter came by.
To him he flies, and bows, and bows again,
Then, clofe as Umbra, joins the dirty train.
Not Fannius' felf more impudently near,
When half his nofe is in his Prince's ear.



I quak'd

Becoming Traytor, and methought I faw.
One of our Giant Statues, ope its jaw
To fuck me in for hearing him: I found
That as burnt venemous Leachers do grow found
By giving others their fores, I might grow
Guilty, and he free: Therefore I did fhow
All figns of loathing; but fince I am in,
I must pay mine, and my forefathers fin
To the last farthing. Therefore to my power
Toughly and ftubbornly I bear; but th' hower
Of mercy was now come: he tries to bring
Me to pay a fine to 'fcape a torturing,

And fays, Sir, can you fpare me? I faid, Willingly;
Nay, Sir, can you fpare me a crown? Thankfully I
Gave it, as ranfom; but as fidlers, still,
Though they be paid to be gone, yet needs will
Thrust one more jigg upon you: so did he
With his long complimental thanks vex me.

I quak'd at heart; and, ftill afraid to fee
All the Court fill'd with stranger things than he,
Ran out as faft as one that pays his bail,
And dreads more actions, hurries from a jail.


Bear me, fome God! oh quickly bear me hence
To wholesome Solitude, the nurse of Sense;
Where Contemplation prunes her ruffled wings,
And the free foul looks down to pity Kings!
There fober thought purfued th' amufing theme,
Till Fancy colour'd it, and form'd a Dream.
A Vifion hermits can to Hell transport,
And forc'd ev'n me to fee the damn'd at Court.
Not Dante, dreaming all th' infernal state,
Beheld fuch scenes of envy, fin, and hate.
Bafe Fear becomes the guilty, not the free;
Suits Tyrants, Plunderers, but fuits not me:

My piteous foul began the wretchednefs
Of fuitors at court to mourn, and a trance
Like his, who dreamt he faw hell, did advance
Itfelf o'er me; fuch men as he saw there
I faw at court, and worse and more. Low fear



195. Shall

But he is gone, thanks to his needy want,
And the Prerogative of my Crown; fcant
His thanks were ended, when I (which did fee
All the Court fill'd with more ftrange things than he)
Ran from thence with fuch, or more hafte than one
Who fears more actions, doth haft from prison.
At home in wholefome folitarinefs

Shall I, the Terror of this finful town,
Care, if a livery'd Lord or fmile or frown?
Who cannot flatter, and deteft who can,
Tremble before a noble Serving-man?
O my fair mistress, Truth! fhall I quit thee
For huffing, braggart, puft Nobility?
Thou, who fince yesterday haft roll'd o'er all
The bufy, idle blockheads of the ball,

Haft thou, oh Sun! beheld an emptier fort,
Than fuch as fwell this bladder of a court?
Now pox on those who show a Court in wax!
It ought to bring all Courtiers on their backs:
Such painted puppets! fuch a varnish'd race
Of hollow gewgaws, only drefs and face!

Becomes the guilty, not the accufer: Then,
Shall I, none's flave, of highborn or rais'd men
Fear frowns: and my mistress Truth, betray thee
For th' huffing, bragart, puft nobility?

No, no, thou which fince yesterday haft been
Almost about the whole world, haft thou feen,
O fun, in all thy journey, vanity,

Such as fwells the bladder of our court? I
Think he which made your Waxen garden, and
Transported it from Italy, to ftand

With us, at London, flouts our Courtiers; for
Juft fuch gay painted things, which no fap, nor
Tafte have in them, ours are; and natural
Some of the stocks are; their fruits bastard all.




Such waxen nofes, ftately ftaring things

No wonder fome folks bow, and think them Kings.
See! where the British youth, engag'd no more,
At Fig's, at White's, with felons, or a whore,
Pay their last duty to the Court, and come
All fresh and fragrant, to the drawing-room;
In hues as gay, and odours as divine,
As the fair fields they fold to look fo fine.
"That 's velvet for a King!" the flatterer swears;
'Tis true, for ten days hence 'twill be King Lear's.
Our Court may juflly to our stage give rules,
That helps it both to fool's-coats and to fools.
And why not players ftrut in courtiers clothes?
For these are actors too, as well as thofe :
Wants reach all ftates: they beg but better dreft,
And all is fplendid poverty at best.

'Tis ten a Clock and paft; all whom the mues, Baloun, or tennis, diet, or the stews



225 Painted

Had all the morning held, now the second
Time made ready, that day, in flocks are found
In the Prefence, and I (God pardon me)
As fresh and sweet their Apparels be, as be
'Their fields they fold to buy them. For a king
Those hose are, cry the flatterers: and bring
Them next week to the theatre to fell.
Wants reach all ftates: me feems they do as well
At ftage, as courts: all are players. Whoe'er looks
(For themfelves dare not go) o'er Cheapfide books,

Painted for fight, and effenc'd for the smell, Like frigates fraught with fpice and cochinell, Sail in the Ladies: how each pirate eyes So weak a veffel, and fo rich a prize! Top-gallant he, and fhe in all her trim, He boarding her, the ftriking fail to him: "Dear Countefs! you have charms all hearts to hit!" And Sweet Sir Fopling! you have fo much wit!" Such wits and beauties are not prais'd for nought, For both the beauty and the wit are bought. 'Twould burft even Heraclitus with the spleen, To fee those anticks, Fopling and Courtin: The Prefence feems, with things fo richly odd, The mofque of Mahound, or fome queer Pa-god. See them furvey their limbs by Durer's rules, Of all beau-kind the best proportion'd fools!

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Shall find their wardrobes inventory. Now
The Ladies come. As pirates (which do know
That there came weak fhips fraught with Cutchanel)
The men board them: and praife (as they think) well,
Their beauties; they the mens wits; both are bought.
Why good wits ne'er wear fcarlet gowns, I thought
This caufe, Thefe men, mens wits for fpeeches buy,
And women buy all red which scarlets dye.
He call'd her beauty lime-twigs, her hair net:
She fears her drugs ill lay'd, her hair loofe fet.
Wouldn't Heraclitus laugh to fee Macrine
From hat to fhoe, himself at door refine,

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