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Shall I, the Terror of this finful town,
Care, if a livery'd Lord or fmile or frown?
Who cannot flatter, and deteft who can,
Tremble before a noble Serving-man?
O my fair mistress, Truth! fhall I quit thee
For huffing, braggart, puft Nobility?

Thou, who fince yesterday hast roll'd o'er all
The bufy, idle blockheads of the ball,
Haft thou, oh Sun! beheld an emptier fort,
Than fuch as fwell this bladder of a court?
Now pox on those who show a Court in wax!
It ought to bring all Courtiers on their backs :
Such painted puppets! fuch a varnish'd race



Of hollow gewgaws, only dress and face !


Becomes the guilty, not the accufer: Then,
Shall I, none's flave, of highborn or rais'd men
Fear frowns and my mistress Truth, betray thee
For th' huffing, bragart, puft nobility?
No, no, thou which since yesterday hast been,
Almost about the whole world, haft thou seen,
O fun, in all thy journey, vanity,

Such as fwells the bladder of our court? I
Think he which made your Waxen garden, and
Transported it from Italy, to ftand

With us, at London, flouts our Courtiers; for
Juft fuck gay painted things, which no sap, nor
Taste have in them, ours are; and natural
Some of the ftocks are; their fruits bastard all.

Such waxen nofes, ftately ftaring things

No wonder fome folks bow, and think them Kings.

See! where the British youth, engag'd no more,
At Fig's, at White's, with felons, or a whore,
Pay their last duty to the Court, and come
All fresh and fragrant, to the drawing-room;
In hues as gay, and odours as divine,

As the fair fields they fold to look fo fine.
"That's Velvet for a King!" the flatterer swears;
'Tis true, for ten days hence 'twill be King Lear's.
Our Court may justly to our stage give rules,
That helps it both to fools-coats and to fools.
And why not players ftrut in courtiers clothes?
For thefe are actors too, as well as thofe :
Wants reach all states: they beg but better dreft,
And all is fplendid poverty at best.




225 Painted

'Tis ten a Clock and past; all whom the mues, Baloun, or tennis, diet, or the stews

Had all the morning held, now the fecond
Time made ready, that day, in flocks are found
In the Prefence, and I (God pardon me)
As fresh and sweet their Apparels be, as be
Their fields they fold to buy them. For a king
Those hose are, cry the flatterers: and bring
Them next week to the theatre to fell.

Wants reach all states: me feems they do as well
At stage, as courts; all are players. Whoe'er looks
(For themselves dare not go) o'er Cheapfide books,


Painted for fight, and essenc'd for the smell, Like frigates fraught with spice and cochinell, Sail in the Ladies: how each pirate eyes So weak a veffel, and fo rich a prize! Top-gallant he, and she in all her trim, He boarding her, the flriking fail to him: "Dear Countess! you have charms all hearts to hit!” And "Sweet Sir Fopling! you have so much wit!” Such wits and beauties are not prais'd for nought, For both the beauty and the wit are bought. 'Twould burft even Heraclitus with the spleen, To fee those anticks, Fopling and Courtin : The Prefence feems, with things fo richly odd, The mofque of Mahound, or fome queer Pa-god. See them furvey their limbs by Durer's rules, Of all beau-kind the beft proportion'd fools!




Shall find their wardrobes inventory. Now
The Ladies come. As pirates (which do know
That there came weak ships fraught with Cutchanel)
The men board them: and praise (as they think) well,
Their beauties; they the mens wits; both are bought,
Why good wits ne'er wear fearlet gowns, I thought
This caufe, Thefe men, mens wits for fpeeches buy,
And women buy all red which scarlets dye.
He call'd her beauty lime-twigs, her hair net:
She fears her drugs ill lay'd, her hair loose set.
Wouldn't Heraclitus laugh to fee Macrine
From hat to fhoe, himself at door refine,

Adjust their cloaths, and to confeffion draw
Thofe venial fins, an atom, or a straw;
But oh! what terrors muft diftract the foul
Convicted of that mortal crime, a hole;
Or fhould one pound of powder lefs bespread
Those monkey-tails that wag behind their head.
Thus finish'd, and corrected to a hair,
They march, to prate their hour before the Fair.
So first to preach a white-glov'd Chaplain goes,
With band of Lily, and with cheek of Rose,
Sweeter than Sharon, in immaculate trim,
Neatness itself impertinent in him.



As if the Prefence were a Mofque and lift

His skirts and hofe, and call his clothes to fhrift,
Making them confefs not only mortal

Great ftains and holes in them, but venial
Feathers and dust, wherewith they fornicate:
And then by Durer's rules furvey the state
Of his each limb, and with strings the odds tries
Of his neck to his leg, and waste to thighs,
So in immaculate clothes, and Symmetry
Perfect as Circles, with fuch nicety
As a young Preacher at his first time goes
To preach, he enters, and a lady which owes
Him not so much as good-will, he arrefts,
And unto her protefts, protests, protests,

So much as at Rome would ferve to have thrown,
Ten Cardinals into the Inquifition;


Let but the Ladies fmile, and they are bleft:
Prodigious! how the things protest, protest:
Peace, fools, or Gonfon will for Papifts feize you,
If once he catch you at your Jefu! Jefu!

Nature made every Fop to plague his brother,
Juft as one Beauty mortifies another.


But here's the Captain that will plague them both, 260
Whofe air cries Arm! whofe very look's an oath:
The Captain's honest, Sirs, and that's enough,
Though his foul's bullet, and his body buff.
He fpits fare-right; his haughty cheft before,
Like battering rams, beats open every door:
And with a face as red, and as awry,
As Herod's hangdogs in old Tapestry,
Scarecrow to boys, the breeding woman's curfe,
Has yet a strange ambition to look worse :

And whispers by Jefu so oft, that a



Purfuevant would have ravish'd him away
For faying our Lady's Pfalter. But 'tis fit
That they each other plague, they merit it,
But here comes Glorious that will plague 'em both,
Who in the other extreme only doth

Call a rough carelefnefs good fashion :

Whose cloak his fpurs tear, or whom he spits on,
He cares not, he. His ill words do no harm
To him; he rushes in, as if Arm, arm,

He meant to cry; and though his face be as ill
As theirs which in old hangings whip Christ, still

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