Nay troth th' Apoftles (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 fure transition 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 question but the Tower had stood.
"Obliging Sir! for Courts you fure were made:
"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 least the Queen.” Ah gentle Sir! you Courtiers fo cajole us
But Tully has it, "Nunquam minus folus :"
Good pretty Linguifts; fo Panurgus was.
Gentleman; all these may pafs
Yet a poor
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 Babel's Bricklayers, fure the Tower had stood.
He adds, If of Court life you knew the good,
You would leave lonelefs. I faid, Not alone
My loneness is; but Spartanes fashion
To teach by painting drunkards doth not last
Now, Aretine's pictures have made few chaste ;
And as for Courts, forgive me, if I fay
No leffons 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 fhould, by my advice, learn Virtue there.
At this entranc'd, he lifts his hands and eyes, Squeaks like a high-ftretch'd luteftring, and replies; "Oh, 'tis the fweeteft of all earthly things
"To gaze on Princes, and to talk of Kings !"
Then, happy Man who fhows the Tombs! faid I,
He dwells amidft the Royal Family;
He every 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, Ease and Bread.
No more can Princes Courts (though there be few
Better pictures of vice) teach me virtue.
He like to a high-stretcht Lutestring squeaks, O Sir,
'Tis sweet 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 shall hear nought but Kings; your eyes meet
Kings only the way to it is Kings-street.
He fmack'd, and cry'd, He's base, mechanique, coarse, So are all your Englishmen in their difcourfe.
"Lord, Sir, a mere Mechanic! ftrangely 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.
"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 difhabille-
Wild to get loofe, his patience I provoke,
Mistake, confound, object at all he spoke.
But as coarse iron, sharpen'd, mangles more,
And itch moft hurts when anger'd to a fore;
So when you plague a fool, 'tis ftill the curse,
You only make the matter worfe and worse.
He past it o'er; affects an easy smile
At all my peevishness, and turns his style.
He afks, "What News?" I tell him of new Plays,
New Eunuchs, Harlequins, and Operas.
Are not your Frenchmen neat? Mine, as you see,
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.
Not fo, 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 worfe: So, I (fool) found,
Croffing hurt me. To fit my fullenness,
He to another key his style doth dress ;
He hears, and as a Still with fimples in it
Between each drop it gives, stays half a minute,
Loth to inrich me with too quick replies
By little, and by little, drops his lies.
Mere houfhold trash! of birthnights, balls, and fhows, More than ten Hollinsheds, or Halls, or Stows.
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,
Or quicken'd a Reverfion by a drug :
Whofe place is quarter'd out, three parts in four,
And whether to a Bishop, or a Whore:
Who, having loft his credit, pawn'd his rent,
Is therefore fit to have a Government:
Who, in the fecret, deals in Stocks fecure,
And cheats th' unknowing Widow and the Poor :
And asks what news; I tell him of new playes,
He takes my hand, and as a Still, which ftayes
A Sembrief 'twixt each drop, he niggardly,
As loth to enrich me, fo tells many a ly.
More than ten Hollenfheds, or Halls, or Stows,
Of trivial houfhold trafh: He knows, he knows
When the Queen frown'd or fmil'd, and he knows what
A fubtle Statefman may gather of that;
He knows who loves whom; and who by poifon
Hafts to an officer's reverfion;
Who waftes in meat, in clothes, in horfe, he notes,
Who loveth whores
Who makes a Truft of Charity a Job,
And gets an A&t of Parliament to rob:
Why Turnpikes rife, and now no Cit nor Clown
Can gratis fee the country, or the town:
Shortly no lad fhall chuck, or lady vole,
But some excifing Courtier will have toll.
He tells what Strumpet places fells for life,
What 'Squire his lands, what Citizen his wife :
At laft (which proves him wiser still than all)
+ What Lady's face is not a whited wall.
As one of Woodward's patients, fick, and fore,
I puke, I nauseate,—yet he thrusts in more:
Trims Europe's balance, tops the statesman's part,
And talks Gazettes and Poftboys o'er by heart.
He knows who hath fold his land, and now doth beg
A licence, old iron, boots, fhoes, and egge-
fhortly boys fhall not play
At span-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 with home meats cloys me. I belch, fpue, fpit,
Look pale and fickly, like a Patient, yet
He thrufts on more, and as he had undertook,
To say Gallo Belgicus without book,
Speaks of all States and deeds that have been fince
The Spaniards came to th' lofs of Amyens.
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