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The doctor's wormwood style, the hash of tongues
A pedant makes, the storm of Gonson's lungs,
The whole artill’ry of the terms of war,
And (all those plagues in one) the bawling bar: 55
These I could bear ; but not a rogue so civil,
Whose tongue will compliment you to the devil.
A tongue, that can cheat widows, cancel scores,
Make Scots speak treason, cozen subtlest whores,
With royal favourites in flatt'ry vie,
And Oldmixon and Burnet both outlie.

He spies me out; I whisper, Gracious God!
What sin of mine could merit such a rod ?
That all the shot of dulness now must be
From this thy blunderbuss discharg'd on me! 65
Permit (he cries) no stranger to your fame
To crave your sentiment, if —'s your name.
What speech esteem you most? “ The King's,” said I.
But the best words ? _“O, Sir, the dictionary.
You miss my aim; I mean the most acute, 70
And perfect speaker ? _“Onslow, past dispute.”
But, Sir, of writers? “ Swift for closer style,
" But Ho**y for a period of a mile.”
Why yes, 'tis granted, these indeed may pass :
Good common linguists, and so Panurge was ; 75
Nay troth th' apostles (tho' perhaps too rough)
Had once a pretty gift of tongues enough:
Yet these were all poor gentlemen! I dare
Affirm, 'twas travel made them what they were.

That I was fain to say, If you had liv’d, Sir,
Time enough to have been interpreter
To Babel's bricklayers, sure the tower had stood.

He adds, If of court life you knew the good,
You would leave loneness. I said, Not alone
My loneness is; but Spartanes fashion
To teach by painting drunkards doth not last
Now, Aretines pictures have made few chaste ;
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 King's-street.

He 90

Thus other talents having nicely shown, 80 He came by sure transition to his own : Till I cry'd out, You prove yourself so able, Pity! you was not druggerman at Babel; For had they found a linguist half so good, I make no question but the tow'r had stood. 85

Obliging Sir! for courts you sure were made : Why then for ever bury'd in the shade ? “ Spirits like you,

should see and should be seen, “ The King would smile on you—at least the Queen.” Ah gentle Sir! you courtiers so cajole us-But Tully has it, Nunquam minus solus : And as for courts, forgive me, if I say No lessons now are taught the Spartan way: Tho' in his pictures lust be full display'd, Few are the converts Aretine has made ;

95 And tho' 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 ; 66 Oh, 'tis the sweetest of all earthly things “ To gaze on princes, and to talk of kings !" Then, happy man who shows the tombs! said I, He dwells amidst the royal family ; He ev'ry day, from king to king can walk, Of all our Harries, all our Edwards talk, 105 And get by speaking truth of monarchs dead, What few can of the living, ease and bread.

« Lord,

100

VOL. III.

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Who wastes in meat, in clothes, in horse, he notes,
Who loveth whores ...
He knows who hath sold his land, and who 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 wiser than all us,
He knows what lady is not painted. Thus
He with home meats cloyes me. I belch, spue, spit,
Look pale and sickly, 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 since
The Spaniards came to th’ loss of Amyens.
Like a big wife, at sight of loathed meat,
Ready to travail : 80 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 ev'ry office paid ;
He saith our wars thrive ill because delaid ;
That offices are intail'd, and that there are
Perpetuities of them, lasting as far

As

III

120

“ 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 so! nay, let me die, “ Your only wearing is your Padua-soy." Not, Sir, my only, I have better still, And this you see is but my dishabille

115 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 most hurts when anger'd to a sore; 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.

125 He hears, and as a still with simples in it, Between each drop it gives, stays half a minute, Loth to enrich me with too quick replies, By little, and by little, drops his lies.

129 Mere houshold trash! of birth-nights, balls, and shows, More than ten Hollinsheads, or Halls, or Stows. When the Queen frown'd, or smil'd, he knows; 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 :

135 Whose

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