Adjust their cloaths, and to confeffion draw
Those venial fins, an atom, or a straw;
But oh what terrors muft diftract the foul
Convicted of that mortal crime, a hole;
Or should 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 Presence were a Mofque: and lift
His fkirts and hofe, and call his clothes to shrift,
Making them confefs not only mortal
Great ftains and holes in them, but venial
Feathers and duft, wherewith they fornicate:
And then by Durer's rules furvey the ftate
Of his each limb, and with ftrings 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 fo much as good-will, he arrefts,
And unto her protests, protefts, protests,
So much as at Rome would ferve to have thrown
Ten Cardinals into the Inquifition;
Let but the Ladies smile, and they are bleft:
Prodigious! how the things proteft, protest:
Peace, fools, or Gonfon will for Papifts feize you,
If once he catch you at your Jesu! Jesu!
Nature made every Fop to plague his brother,
Just 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 honeft, 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 curse,
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 Chrift, ftill
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 so
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 Askapart, of strength 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 discover'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 stains; 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 stains away: Although I yet
(With Maccabees modefty) the known merit
Of my work leffen, yet fome wife men shall,
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 see 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 so 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.
VOL. II.
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