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Our fons fhall fee it leisurely decay,

Firft turn plain rash, then vanish quite away.


This thing has travel'd, speaks each language too,
And knows what's fit for every ftate to do;
Of whose best 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 Hash of tongues
A Pedant makes, the ftorm of Gonfon's lungs,

The whole Artill❜ry of the terms of War,

And (all those plagues in one) the bawling Bar: 55
These I cou'd bear; but not a rogue so civil,
Whose tongue will compliment you to the devil.
A tongue, that can cheat widows, cancel feores,
Make Scots speak treafon, cozen fubtleft whores,
With royal Favourites in flatt'ry vie,
And Oldmixon and Burnet both out-lie:

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He spies me out, I whisper, Gracious God!
What fin of mine could merit fuch a rod?
That all the shot of dulness now must be
From this thy blunderbuss discharg❜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 best words? O Sir, the Dictionary."


Nay, but of men, moft fweet Sir? Beza then,

Some Jesuits, and two reverend men

Of our two academies I nam'd: here

He ftopt me, and faid, Nay your Apoftles were
Good pretty Linguifts; fo Panurgus was,
Yet a poor Gentleman; all thefe 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 fay, If you had liv'd, Sir,

Time enough to have been Interpreter

To Babels Bricklayers, fure the Tower had stood.

He adds, If of Court life you knew the good, You would leave loneness. I faid, Not alone My loneness is; but Spartanes fashion


VER. 78. Yet thefe were all poor Gentlemen!] Our Poet has here added to the humour of his original. Donne makes his thread-bare Traveller content himself under his

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You miss
my aim; I mean the moft acute
And perfect Speaker?" Onflow, paft difpute."
But, Sir, of writers?" Swift, for closer style,
"But Ho**y for a period of a mile."
Why yes, 'tis granted, these 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:
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 Tow'r had stood. "Obliging Sir! for Courts you fure were made: "Why then for ever bury'd in the shade? "Spirits like you, should fee and should be seen, "The King would fmile on you--at least the Queen. Ah gentle Sir! you Courtiers fo cajol usBut Tully has it, Nunquam minus folus: And as for Courts, forgive me, if I fay No leffons now are taught the Spartan way:


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poverty with the reflection that Panurge himself, the greas Traveller and Linguist in Rabelais, went a begging.

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To teach by painting drunkards doth not last
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 Sir,

'Tis sweet 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 :
Your ears fhall hear nought but Kings; your eyes


Kings only: The way to it is Kings-ftreet.

He fmack'd, and cry'd, He's base, mechanique, course,

So are all your Englishmen in their difcourfe.

Are not your Frenchmen neat? Mine, as you fee,
I have but one, Sir, look, he follows me.
Certes they are neatly cloath'd. I of this mind am,
Your only wearing is your Grogaram.


VER. 104. He ev'ry day from King to King can walk,] There is fomething humourous enough in the words of the Original. The way to it is Kings-freet. But the Imi


Tho' in his pictures Luft be full display'd,
Few are the Converts Aretine has made;
And tho' the Court show Vice exceeding clear,
None fhould, by my advice, learn Virtue there.
At this entranc'd, he lifts his hands and
Squeaks like a high-stretch'd luteftring, and replies:
"Oh 'tis the sweetest of all earthly things
"To gaze on Princes, and to talk of Kings!
Then, happy Man who shows the Tombs! faid I,
He dwells amidst the royal Family;

He ev'ry day, from King to King can walk,
Of all our Harries, all our Edwards talk,
And get by speaking truth of monarchs dead,
What few can of the living, Eafe and Bread.
"Lord, Sir, a meer Mechanic! ftrangely low,
"And coarse of phrafe,-your English all are fo.
"How elegant your Frenchmen?" Mine, d'ye mean?
I have but one, I hope the fellow's clean.
"Oh! Sir, politely fo! nay, let me die,
"Your only wearing is your Padua-foy."
Not, Sir, my only, I have better ftill,
And this you fee is but my dishabille-
Wild to get loose, his Patience I provoke,
Mistake, confound, object at all he spoke.


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tator has given us more than an equivalent in that fine ftroke of moral fatire in the

106 and 107th lines.


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