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Let but the Ladies smile, and they are bleft:
Prodigious how the things proteft, proteft:
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 fore-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 Jesu so oft, that a
Pursuevant 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:
Whofe 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
Confounds the civil, keeps the rude in awe,
Jefts like a licens'd fool, commands like law.
Frighted, I quit the room, but leave it fo
As men from Jails to execution go;
For hung with deadly fins I fee the wall,
And lin'd with Giants deadlier than them all;
Each Man an Afkapart, of ftrength to tofs
For quoits, both Temple-bar and Charing-crofs.
Scar'd at the grizly forms, I fweat, I fly,
And shake all o'er, like a difcover'd spy.
Courts are too much for wits fo weak as mine:
Charge them with Heaven's Artillery, bold Divine!
From fuch alone the Great rebukes endure,
Whofe Satire's facred, and whose rage fecure:
He strives to look worfe; he keeps all in awe;
Jefts like a licens'd fool, commands like law.
Tir'd, now, I leave this place, and but pleas'd fo
As men from gaols to execution go,
Go, through the great chamber (why is it hung,
With these seven deadly fins ?) being among
Those Askaparts, men big enough to throw
Charing-crofs, for a bar, men that do know,
No token of worth, but Queens man, and fine
Living; barrels of beef, flaggons of wine.
I shook like a spied Spie-Preachers which are
Seas of Wit and Arts, you can, then dare,
Drown the fins of this place, but as for me
Which am but a fcant brook, enough shall be
'Tis mine to wash a few light ftains; but theirs
To deluge fin, and drown a Court in tears.
Howe'er what's now Apocrypha, my Wit,
In time to come, may pass for Holy Writ.
To wash the ftains away: Although I yet
(With Maccabees modefty) the known merit
Of my work leffen, yet fome wife men fhall,
I hope, esteem my Writs Canonical.
OT twice a twelvemonth you appear in Print, And when it comes, the Court fee nothing in't. You grow correct, that once with Rapture writ, And are, befides, too moral for a Wit.
Decay of Parts, alas! we all must feel-
Why now, this moment, don't I fee you steal?
'Tis all from Horace; Horace long before ye
Said, "Tories call'd him Whig, and Whigs a Tory;"
You don't, I hope, pretend to quit the trade,
Because you think your reputation made:
Like good Sir Paul, of whom fo much was faid,
That when his name was up, he lay a-bed.
Come, come, refresh us with a livelier fong,
Or, like Sir Paul, you'll lie a-bed too long.
P. Sir, what I write, fhould be correctly writ.
F. Correct! 'tis what no genius can admit.
Befides, you grow too moral for a Wit.
And taught his Romans, in much better metre,
"To laugh at Fools who put their trust in Peter."
But Horace, Sir, was delicate, was nice;
Bubo obferves, he lafh'd no fort of Vice:
Horace would fay, Sir Billy ferv'd the Crown,
Blunt could do Bufinefs, Higgins knew the Town;
In Sappho touch the Failings of the Sex,
In reverend Bishops note fome fmall Neglects,
And own the Spaniard did a waggish thing,
Who cropt our Ears, and fent them to the King.
His fly, polite, infinuating ftyle
Could please at Court, and make AUGUSTUS fmile:
An artful Manager, that crept between
His Friend and Shame, and was a kind of Screen.
But 'faith your very Friends will foon be fore;
Patriots there are, who wish you'd jeft no more-
And where's the Glory? 'twill be only thought
The Great man never offer'd you a groat.
Go fee Sir ROBERT-
P. See Sir ROBERT!--hum-
And never laugh-for all my life to come?
Seen him I have, but in his happier hour
Of Social Pleasure, ill-exchang'd for Power;
Seen him, uncumber'd with a Venal tribe,
Smile without Art, and win without a Bribe.
Would he oblige me! let me only find,
He does not think me what he thinks mankind.
Come, come, at all I laugh he laughs, no doubt;
The only difference is, I dare laugh out.