« PreviousContinue »
Adjust their cloaths, and to confession draw
Those venial fins, an atom, or a straw ;
But oh! what terrors must distract the foul
Convicted of that mortal crime, a hole;
Or should 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 Rofe,
Sweeter than Sharon, in immaculate trim,
Neatness itself impertinent in him.
As if the Presence were a Mosque: and lift
His skirts and hose, and call his clothes to Thrift,
Making them confess not only mortal
Great stains and holes in them, but venial
Feathers and dust, wherewith they fornicate :
And then by Durer's rules survey 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 such nicety
As a young Preacher at his first time goes
To preach, he enters, and a lady which owes
Him not so much as good-will, he arrests,
And unto her protests, protests, protests,
So much as at Rome would serve to have thrown
Ten Cardinals into the Inquisition;
Let but the Ladies smile, and they are blest :
Prodigious ! how the things protest, proteft : 255
Peace, fools, or Gonson will for Papists seize you,
If once he catch you at your Jesu! Jesu!
Nature made every Fop to plague his brother,
Just as one Beauty mortifies another.
But here's the Captain that will plague them both, 260
Whose air cries Arm! whose
look's an oath : The Captain 's honest, Sirs, and that 's enough, Though his soul's bullet, and his body buff, He spits fore-right; his haughty chest before, Like battering rams, beats open every door: 265 And with a face as red, and as awry, As Herod's hangdogs in old Tapestry, Scarecrow to boys, the breeding woman's curse, Has yet a strange ambition to look worfe :
And whispers by Jesu so oft, that a
Pursuevant would have ravishd him away
For saying our Lady's Psalter. But 'tis fit
That they each o 'zer plague, they merit it,
But here comes Glorious that will plague 'em both,
Who in the other extreme only doth
Call a rough carelesness good fashion :
Whose 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, still
Confounds the civil, keeps the rude in awe, 270
Jests like a licens'd fool, commands like law.
Frighted, I quit the room, but leave it so
As men from Jails to execution go;
For hung with deadly fins I see the wall,
And lin'd with Giants deadlier than them all;
Each Man an Alkapart, of strength to toss
For quoits, both Temple-bar and Charing-cross.
Scar'd at the grizly forms, I sweat, I fly,
And shake all o'er, like a discover'd fpy.
Courts are too much for wits so weak as mine :
Charge them with Heaven's Artillery, bold Divine !
From such alone the Great rebukes endure,
Whose Satire 's facred, and whose rage secure:
He strives to look worse ; he keeps all in awe;
Jests like a licens'd fool, commands like law.
Tir'd, now, I leave this place, and but pleas'd fa
As men from gaols to execution go,
Go, through the great chamber (why is it hung,
With these seven deadly fins ?) being among
> Those Alkaparts, men big enough to throw
Charing-cross, 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 thall 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 pass for Holy Writ.
To wash the stains away: Although I yet
(With Maccabees modesty) the known merit
Of my work lessen, yet some wise men shall,
I hope, esteem my Writs Canonical.
OT twice a twelvemonth you appear in Print,
And when it comes, the Court see nothing in't.
You grow correct, that once with Rapture writ,
And are, besides, too moral for a Wit.
Decay of Parts, alas ! we all must feel
S Why now, this moment, don't I see you steal ? 'Tis all from Horace; Horace long before ye Said, “ Tories call’d him Whig, and Whigs a Tory;"
After ver. 2. in the MS.
You don't, I hope, pretend to quit the trade,
your reputation made :
Like good Sir Paul, of whom so much was said,
That when his name was up, he lay a-bed.
Come, come, refresh us with a livelier song,
Or, like Sir Paul, you'll lie a-bed too long.
P. Sir, what I write, should be correctly writ.
F. Correct ! 'tis what no genius can admit.
Besides, you grow too moral for a Wit.