Nay, troth, the apostles (though 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 sure transition to his own:
Till I cried 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 question but the tower had stood.'
Obliging sir! for courts you sure were made:
Why then for ever buried in the shade?
Spirits like you, should see and should be seen,
The king would smile on you-at least the queen.'
'Ah, gentle sir! your courtiers so cajole us-
But Tully has it, Nunquam minus solus:
And as for courts, forgive me, if I say
No lessons now are taught the Spartan way:
Though in his pictures lust be full display'd,
Few are the converts Aretine has made;
And though the court show vice exceeding clear,
None should, by my advice, learn virtue there.'
At this entranced, he lifts his hands and eyes,
Squeaks like a high-stretch'd lutestring, and replies
'Oh, 'tis the sweetest of all earthly things
To gaze on princes, and to talk of kings!'
By travail.' Then, as if he would sold
His tongue, he praised it, and such wonders told,
That I was fain to say, 'If you had lived, sir,
Time enough to have been interpreter
To Babel's bricklayers, sure the tower had stood.'
He adds, 'If of court life you knew the good,
You would leave loneless.' I said, 'Not alone"
My loneless is; but Spartanes fashion
To teach by painting drunkards doth not last
Now, Aretine's 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-stretch'd lutestring squeaks, 'O sir Tis sweet to talk of kings.' 'At Westminster'
"Then happy man who shows the tombs !' said I 'He dwells amidst the royal family;
He every day from king to king can walk,
Of all our Harrys, all our Edwards talk;
And get, by speaking truth of monarchs dead,
What few can of the living-ease and bread."
'Lord, sir, a mere inechanic! strangely low,
And coarse of phrase,-your English all are so
How elegant your Frenchmen!' 'Mine d'ye mean!
I have but one; I hope the fellow's clean.'
'O! sir, politely so nay, let me die,
Your only wearing is your paduasoy.'
'Not, sir, my only, I have better still,
And this you see is but my deshabille-
Wild to get loose, his patience I provoke,
Mistake, confound, object at all he spoke.
But as coarse iron, sharpen'd, mangles more,
And itch most hurts when anger'd to a sore;
So when you plague a fool, 'tis still the curse,
You only make the matter worse and worse.
He pass'd it o'er; affects an easy smile
At all my peevishness, and turns his style.
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 shall hear nought but kings; your eyes mee!
Kings only: the way to it is King-street,'
He smack'd, and cried,' He's base, mechanique coarse,
So are all your Englishmen in their discourse.
Are not your Frenchmen neat?' 'Mine, as you see,
I have but one, sir, look, he follows me,'
'Certes they are neatly cloathed. I of this mind am Your only wearing is your grogaram."
'Not so, sir, I have more.' Under this pitch
He would not fly: I chaff'd him: but as itch
Scratch'd into smart, and as blunt iron ground
Into an edge, hurts worse: So, I (fool) found,
Crossing hurt me. To fit my sullenness,
He to another key his style doth dress:
He asks, 'What news?" I tell him of new plays,
New eunuchs, harlequins, and operas.
He hears, and as a still with simples in it,
Between each drop it gives, stays half a minute,
Loath to enrich me with too quick replies,
By little, and by little, drops his lies.
Mere household trash! of birthnights, balls, and shows,
More than ten Hollinsheds, or Halls, or Stowes. When the queen frown'd, or smiled, he knows; and what
A subtle minister may make of that:
Who sins with whom: who got his pension rug,
Or quicken'd a reversion by a drug :
Whose place is quarter'd out, three parts in four,
And whether to a bishop, or a whore :
Who, having lost his credit, pawn'd his rent,
Is therefore fit to have a government:
Who, in the secret, deals in stocks secure,
And cheats the unknowing widow and the poor:
Who makes a trust of charity a job,
And gets an act of parliament to rob:
Why turnpikes rise, and now no cit nor clown
Can gratis see the country, or the town:
Ana asks what news; I tell him of new playes.
He takes my hand, and as a still, which stayes
A sembrief 'twixt each drop, he niggardly,
As loth to enrich me, so tells many a ly.
More than ten Hollensheds, or Halls, or Stows,
Of trivial household trash, he knows. He knows
When the queen frown'd or smiled! and he knows
what
A subtle statesman may gather of that:
He knows who loves whom : and who by poison
Hastes to an officer's reversion;
Who wastes in meat, in clothes, in horse, he notes;
Who loveth whores * ** * * * *
He knows who hath sold his lands, and now doth beg
A licence, old iron, boots, shoes, and egge-
Shells to transport; * * * * *
Shortly no lad shall chuck, or lady vole,
But some excising courtier will have toll.
He tells what strumpet places sells for life,
What 'squire his lands, what citizen his wife :
At last (which proves him wiser still than all)
What lady's face is not a whited wall.
As one of Woodward's patients, sick and sore,
I puke, I nauseate,-yet he thrusts in more:
Trims Europe's balance, tops the statesman's part,
And talks gazettes and postboys o'er by heart.
Like a big wife at sight of loathsome meat,
Ready to cast, I yawn, I sigh, I sweat.
Then as a licensed spy, who nothing can
Silence or hurt, he libels every man ;
Swears every place entail'd for years to come,
In sure succession to the day of doom:
He names the price of every office paid,
And says our wars thrive ill, because delay'd:
* * * * * * shortly boys shall not play At span-counter, or blow-point, but shall pay Toll to some courtier; and wiser than all us, He knows what lady is not painted. Thus He with home meats cloys me. I belch, spue spit,
Look pale and sickly, like a patient, yet
He thrusts on more, and as he had undertook,
To say Gallo Belgicus without book,
Speaks of all states and deeds that have been since
The Spaniards came to the loss of Amyens.
Like a big wife, at sight of loathed meat,
Ready to travail: so I sigh, and sweat
To hear this makaron talk: in vain, for yet,
Either my humour, or his own to fit,
He, like a privileged spie, whom nothing can
Discredit, rebels now gainst each great man.
He names the price of every office paid;
He saith our wars thrive ill, because delaid:
That offices are entailed, and that there are
Perpetuities of them, lasting as far
Nay hints, 'tis by connivance of the court,
That Spain robs on, and Dunkirk's still a port.
Not more amazement seized on Circe's guests,
To see themselves fall headlong into beasts,
Than mine to find a subject staid and wise
Already half turn'd traitor by surprise.
I felt the infection slide from him to me;
As in the pox, some give it to get free;
And quick to swallow me, methought I saw
One of our giant statutes ope its jaw.
In that nice moment, as another lie
Stood just a-tilt, the minister came by.
To him he flies, and bows, and bows again,
Then, close as Umbra, joins the dirty train.
Not Fannius' self more impudently near,
When half his nose is in his prince's ear.
As the last day; and that great officers
Do with the Spaniards share, and Dunkirkers.
I more amazed than Circe's prisoners, when
They felt themselves turn beasts, felt myself then
Becoming traytor, and methought I saw
One of our giant statutes ope its jaw
To suck me in for hearing him : I found
That as burnt venemous leachers do grow sound
By giving others their sores, I might grow
Guilty, and be free: therefore I did show
All signs of loathing; but since I am in,
I must pay mine, and my forefathers sin
To the last farthing. Therefore to my power
Toughly and stubbornly I bear; but the hower
Of mercy now was come: he tries to bring
Me to pay a fine to 'scape a torturing;
And says, 'Sir, can you spare me-?' I said, 'Willingly! 'Nay, sir, can you spare me a crown? Thankfully I Gave it, as ransom: but as fiddlers, still,
Though they be paid to be gone, yet needs will
Thrust one more jigg upon you; so did he
With his long complimented thanks vex me.
But he is gone, thanks to his needy want,
And the prerogative of my crown: scant
VOL. II.
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