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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 ;
95 And though the Court show Vice exceeding clear, None should, by my advice, learn Virtue there.
At this entranc'd, 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 !"
Then, happy Man who shows the Tombs ! faid I,
He dwells amidst 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 smack'd, and cry'd, He's base, mechanique, coarse,
So are all your Englishmen in their difcourse.
“ Lord, Sir, a mere Mechanic! strangely low,
“ And coarse of phrase-your English all are fo.
“ 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 Paduasoy."
Not, Sir, my only, I have better still,
And this you see is but
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 moft hurts when anger'd to a fore;
So when you plague a fool, 'tis still the curse,
You only make the matter worse and worse.
He past it o'er; affects an easy smile
At all my peevishness, and turns his style.
He asks, “ 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 worse: So, I (fool) found,
Crossing hurt me. To fit my sullenness,
He to another key his style doth dress;
He hears, and as a Still with simples 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 houshold trash! of birth nights, balls, and snows,
More than ten Hollinsheds, or Halls, or Stows.
When the Queen frown'd, or smil'd, he krows; 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 th' unknowing Widow and the Poor :
And asks wint 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 ine, so tells many a ly.
More than ten Hollensheds, or Halls, or Stows,
Of trivial houshold trash : He knows, he knows
When the Queen frown'd or smild, and he knows what
A subtle Statesman may gather of that;
He knows who loves whom; and who by poison
Hafts to an officer's reversion;
Who wastes in meat, in clothes, in horse, he notes,
Who loveth whores
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 :
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) 150
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 Postboys o'er by heart. 155
He knows who hath fold his land, and now doth beg
A licence, old iron, boots, shoes, and egge-
Shells to transport;
shortly boys shall not play
At span-counter, or blow-point, but shall pay
Toll to some Courtier; and wifer than all us,
He knows what Lady is not painted. Thus
He with home meats cloys me. I belch, fpue, spit,
Look pale and fickly, 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 fince
The Spaniards came to th' loss of Amyens.
Like a big wife at sight of loathsome meat
Ready to cast, I yawn, I figh, and sweat.
Then as a licens'd fpy, whom nothing can,
Silence or hurt, he libels the great Man;
Swears every place entail'd for years to come,
In sure succession to the day of doom :
He names the price for every office paid,
And says our wars thrive ill, because delay'd :
Nay hints, 'tis by connivance of the Court,
That Spain robs on, and Dunkirk's still a Port.
Not more amazement seiz'd on Circe's guests,
To see themselves fall endlong into beasts,
Than mine to find a subject stay'd and wise
Already half turn'd traitor by surprize.
Like a big wife, at sight of loathed meat,
Ready to travail : fo I sigh, and sweat
To hear this Makaron talk: in vain, for yet,
Either my humour, or his own to fit,
He like a priviledg'd spie, whom nothing can
Discredit, libels now 'gainst each great man.
He names the price of every office paid;
He saith 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 Thare, and Dunkirkers.
I more amaz'd than Circe's prisoners, when
They felt themselves turn beasts, felt myself then