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75.

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 fhown,
He came by fure transition to his own :
Till 1 cry'd out, You prove yourself so able,
Pity! you was not druggerman at Babel;
For had they found a linguist half fo good,
I make no question but the tow'r had stood.
"Obliging Sir! for courts you fure were made ::

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"Why then for ever bury'd in the shade?
"Spirits like you, fhould fee and should be feen,
"The king would smile on you-at leaft the queen.'
Ah gentle Sir! you courtiers fo cajole us-

But Tully has it, nunquam minus folus :
And as for courts, forgive me, if I fay

No lessons now are taught the Spartan way :

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Tho'

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 these may pass
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 lonenefs. I faid, Not alone
My loneness is; but Spartanes fashion

VOL. IL

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Tho' in his pictures luft be full difplay'd,
Few are the converts Aretine has made;

And though the court fhow vice exceeding clear,
None fhould, by my advice, learn virtue there.
At this entranc'd, he lifts his hands and eyes,
Squeaks like a high-stretch'd luteftring, and replies;
Oh 'tis the fweetest of all earthly things
"To gaze on princes, and to talk of kings!"
Then, happy man who fhows 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 fpeaking truth of monarchs dead,

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What few can of the living, ease and bread. "Lord, Sir, a mere 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.

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To teach by painting drunkards doth not last
Now, Aretines pictures have made few chaste;
No more can princes courts (though there be few
Better pictures of vice) teach me virtue.

He like to a high-fretcht luteftring fqueaks, O Sir,
'Tis fweet to talk of kings. At Westminster,
Said I, the man that keeps the abbey-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-meet,
Kings only the way to it is Kings-ftreet.

He fmack'd, and cry'd,. He's bafe, mechanique, coarfe,
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

"Oh! Sir, politely fo! nay, let me die,
"Your only wearing is your paduafoy."
Not, Sir, my only, I have better ftill,
And this you fee is but my dishabille-
Wild to get loofe, his patience I provoke,
Miftake, confound, object at all he spoke.
But as coarse iron, fharpen'd, mangles more,
And itch most hurts when anger'd to a fore;
So when you plague a fool, 'tis ftill the curfe,
You only make the matter worfe and worse.

He pass'd it o'er; affects an easy smile
At all my peevifhnefs, and turns his ftyle.
He afks, "What news?" I tell him of new plays,
New eunuchs, harlequins, and operas.
He hears, and as a ftill with fimples in it
Between each drop it gives, ftays half a minute,
Loth to enrich me with too quick replies,
By little, and by little, drops his lies.

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Mere houfhold trafh! of birthnights, balls, and fhows, More than ten Hollinfheads, or Halls, or Stows.

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Certes they are neatly cloath'd. I of this mind am,
Your only wearing is your grogaram.

Not fo, Sir, I have more. Under this pitch
He would not fly: I chaff'd him: but as itch
Scratch'd into fmart, and as blunt iron ground
Into an edge, hurts worse: fo, I (fool) found,
Croffing hurt me. To fit my fullennefs,
He to another key his ftyle doth dress;
And asks what news; I tell him of new playes,
He takes my hand, and as a ftill, which stayes
A fem brief 'twixt each drop, he niggardly,
As loth to enrich me, fo tells many aly.
More than ten Hollenfheads, or Halls, or Stows,
Of trivial houfhold trash: he knows, he knows

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When the Queen frown'd, or fmil'd, he knows; and what

A fubtle minifter may make of that:

Who fins with whom who got his penfion rug,
Orquicken'd a reverfion by a drug :

Whofe place is quarter'd out, three parts in four,
And whether to a bishop, or a whore :

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Who having loft his credit, pawn'd his rent,
Is therefore fit to have a government:

Who in the fecret, deals in ftocks fecure,

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And cheats th' unknowing widow and the poor:
Who makes a truft of charity a job,

And gets an Act of Parliament to rob:

Why turnpikes rife, and now no cit nor clown
Can gratis fee the country, or the town:
Shortly no lad shall chuck, or lady vole,
But fome excifing courtier will have toll.
He tells what ftrumpet places fells for life,

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What 'fquire his lands, what citizen his wife :

At laft (which proves him wifer ftill than all)
What lady's face is not a whited wall.

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As

When the Queen frown'd or fmil'd, and he knows what A fubtle statesman may gather of that;

He knows who loves whom; and who by poifon

Haftes to an offices reverfion;

Who waftes in meat, in cloaths, in horfe, he notes,
Who loveth whores

He knows who hath fold his land, and now doth beg
A licence, old iron, boots, fhoes, and egg-

Shells to transport;

fhortly boys shall not play At fpan-counter, or blow-point, but shall pay Toll to fome courtier; and wifer than all us, He knows what lady is not painted. Thus

He

As one of Woodward's patients, fick and fore,
1 puke, I nauseate,—yet he thrufts in more:
Trims Europe's balance, tops the ftatesman's part,
And talks gazettes and poftboys o'er by heart.
Like a big wife at fight of loathsome meat,
Ready to caft, I yawn, I figh, and sweat.
Then as a licens'd fpy, whom nothing can,
Silence or hurt, he libels the great man;
Swears ev'ry place entail'd for years to come,
In fure fucceffion to the day of doom:
He names the price for ev'ry office paid,
And fays our wars thrive ill, because delay'd :
Nay hints, 'tis by connivance of the court,
That Spain robs on, and Dunkirk's ftill a port.
Not more amazement feiz'd on Circe's guests,
To fee themselves fall endlong into beafts,

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Than

He with home meats cloyes me. I belch, fpue, fpit,
Look pale and fickly, like a patient, yet

He thrufts on more, and as he had undertook,

To fay gallo-belgicus without book,

Speaks of all ftates and deeds that have been fince.

The Spaniards came to th' lofs of Amyens.

Like a big wife, at fight of loathed meat,
Ready to travail: fo I figh, and fweat
To hear this makaron talk: in vain, for yet,
Either my humour, or his own to fit,
He like a priviledg'd fpie, whom nothing can
Difcredit, libels now 'gainft each great man.
He names the price of ev'ry office paid;
He faith our wars thrive ill because delaid;
That offices are intail'd, and that there are
Perpetuities of them, lafting as far

As the last day; and that great officers
Do with the Spaniards fhare, and Dunkirkers.

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