Adjust their cloaths, and to confession draw Thofe venial fins, an atom, or a straw; But oh! what terrors must distract the foul Convicted of that mortal crime, a hole; Or fhould one pound of powder less bespread Those monkey-tails. that wag behind their head. Thus finish'd, and corrected to a hair,
They march, to prate their hour before the Fair. So first to preach a white-glov'd Chaplain goes, With band of Lily, and with cheek of Rose, Sweeter than Sharon, in immaculate trim, Neatness itself impertinent in him.
As if the Prefence were a Mofque and lift
His fkirts and hofe, and call his clothes to fhrift, Making them confess not only mortal
Great ftains and holes in them, but venial Feathers and duft, wherewith they fornicate: And then by Durer's rules furvey the state Of his each limb, and with strings the odds tries Of his neck to his leg, and waste to thighs, So in immaculate clothes, and Symmetry Perfect as Circles, with fuch nicety As a young Preacher at his first time goes To preach, he enters, and a lady which owes Him not fo much as good-will, he arrefts, And unto her protefts, protefts, protests,
So much as at Rome would ferve to have thrown Ten Cardinals into the Inquifition;
Let but the Ladies fmile, and they are bleft: Prodigious! how the things protest, protest: Peace, fools, or Gonfon will for Papifts feize you, If once he catch you at your Jefu! Jefu !
Nature made every Fop to plague his brother,
Juft as one Beauty mortifies another.
But here's the Captain that will plague them both, 260 Whofe air cries Arm! whofe very look's an oath : The Captain's honeft, Sirs, and that's enough, Though his foul's bullet, and his body buff. He fpits fore-right; his haughty cheft before, Like battering rams, beats open every door: And with a face as red, and as awry, As Herod's hangdogs in old Tapestry, Scarecrow to boys, the breeding woman's curfe, Has yet a strange ambition to look worse:
And whispers by Jefu fo aft, that a
Purfuevant would have ravish'd him away. For faying our Lady's Pfalter. But 'tis fit That they each other plague, they merit it, But here comes Glorious that will plague 'em both, Who in the other extreme only doth
Call a rough carelefnefs good fashion: Whofe cloak his fpurs tear, or whom he spits on He cares not, he. His ill words do no harm To him; he rushes in, as if Arm, arm,
He meant to cry; and though his face be as ill As theirs which in old hangings whip Chrift, ftill
Confounds the civil, keeps the rude in awe, Jefts like a licens'd fool, commands like law. Frighted, I quit the room, but leave it fo As men from Jails to execution go; For hung with deadly fins I fee the wall, And lin❜d with Giants deadlier than them all; Each Man an Afkapart, of ftrength to tofs For quoits, both Temple-bar and Charing-crofs. Scar'd at the grizly forms, I fweat, I fly, And shake all o'er, like a discover'd spy.
Courts are too much for wits fo weak as mine:
Charge them with Heaven's Artillery, bold Divine! From fuch alone the Great rebukes endure,
Whose Satire's facred, and whose rage secure:
He strives to look worfe; he keeps all in awe; Jefts like a licens'd fool, commands like law. Tir'd, now, I leave this place, and but pleas'd so As men from gaols to execution go,
Go, through the great chamber (why is it hung, With these seven deadly fins ?) being among Those Askaparts, men big enough to throw Charing-crofs, for a bar, men that do know, No token of worth, but Queens man, and fine Living; barrels of beef, flaggons of wine. I shook like a spied Spie-Preachers which are Seas of Wit and Arts, you can, then dare, Drown the fins of this place, but as for me Which am but a scant brook, enough shall be
'Tis mine to wash a few light stains; but theirs To deluge fin, and drown a Court in tears. Howe'er what's now Apocrypha, my Wit, In time to come, may pafs for Holy Writ.
To wash the stains away: Although I yet (With Maccabees modefty) the known merit my work leffen, yet fome wife men fhall, I hope, esteem my Writs Canonical.
FR.NOT twice a twelvemonth you appear in Print, And when it comes, the Court fee nothing in't.
You grow correct, that once with Rapture writ, And are, befides, too moral for a Wit.
Decay of Parts, alas! we all must feel- Why now, this moment, don't I fee you steal? 'Tis all from Horace; Horace long before Said, "Tories call'd him Whig, and Whigs a Tory;"
You don't, I hope, pretend to quit the trade, Because you think your reputation made: Like good Sir Paul, of whom so much was faid, That when his name was up, he lay a-bed. Come, come, refresh us with a livelier fong, Or, like Sir Paul, you'll lie a-bed too long. P. Sir, what I write, fhould be correctly writ. F. Correct! 'tis what no genius can admit. Besides, you grow too moral for a Wit.
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