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With royal Favourites in flattery vie,
And Oldmixon and Burnet both outlie.
He spies me out; I whisper, Gracious God! What fin of mine could merit fuch a rod?
That all the fhot of dulnefs now must be
Permit (he cries) no ftranger to your fame
To crave your fentiment, if -'s your name.
What Speech esteem you most?" The King's," faid I.
And perfect Speaker?" Onflow, paft difpute."
Why yes, 'tis granted, these indeed may pass:
Outflatter favourites, or outlie either
He names me, and comes to me; I whisper, God,
I love your Judgment, whom do you prefer
Of our two academies I nam'd.
He stopt me, and faid, Nay your Apoftles were
Nay troth th' Apoftles (though perhaps too rough)
"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 usBut Tully has it, "Nunquam minus folus:"
Good pretty Linguifts; fo Panurgus was.
To Babel's Bricklayers, fure the Tower had ftood.
He adds, If of Court life you knew the good,
And as for Courts, forgive me, if I fay
No feffons now are taught the Spartan way:
At this entranc'd, he lifts his hands and eyes, Squeaks like a high-ftretch'd luteftring, and replies; "Oh, 'tis the sweetest of all earthly things
"To gaze on Princes, and to talk of Kings !"
He every day from King to King can walk,
No more can Princes Courts (though there be few
He like to a high-ftretcht Luteftring fqueaks, O Sir,
From King to King, and all their kin can walk :
Kings only: the way to it is Kings-street.
He smack'd, and cry'd, He's bafe, mechanïque, coarse, So are all your Englishmen in their difcourfe.
"Lord, Sir, a mere Mechanic! 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. "Oh! Sir, politely fo! nay, let me die, "Your only wearing is your Paduafoy." Not, Sir, my only, I have better still, And this you fee is but my difhabilleWild to get loofe, 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 fore; So when you plague a fool, 'tis still the curse, You only make the matter worse and worse.
He paft it o'er; affects an eafy fmile
At all my peevishness, and turns his style.
He asks," What News?" I tell him of new Plays,
Are not your Frenchmen neat? Mine, as you fee,
I have but one, Sir, look, he follows me.
Certes they are neatly cloath'd. I of this mind am,
He hears, and as a Still with simples in it
Between each drop it gives, ftays half a minute,
By little, and by little, drops his lies.
Mere houfhold trash! of birthnights, balls, and shows, More than ten Hollinfheds, or Halls, or Stows.
When the Queen frown'd, or fmil'd, he knows; and what
Who fins with whom: who got his Penfion rug,
Whofe place is quarter'd out, three parts in four,
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,
A fubtle Statefman may gather of that;
He knows who loves whom; and who by poison
Who waftes in meat, in clothes, in horfe, he notes,