Or Sloane, or Woodward's wondrous shelves con Nay, all that lying travellers can feign. [tain, The watch would hardly let him pass at noon, Atnight would swear him dropp'd out of the moon : One whom the mob, when next we find, or make, A Popish plot, shall for a Jesuit take;
And the wise justice, starting from his chair,
Cry, By your priesthood, tell me what you are!'
Such was the wight: the apparel on his back,
Though coarse, was rev'rend; and though bare was
The suit, if by the fashion one might guess, [black:
Was velvet in the youth of good Queen Bess, 41
But mere tuff-taffety what now remain'd;
So Time, that changes all things, had ordain'd!
Our sons shall see it leisurely decay,
First turn plain rash, then vanish quite away.
Stranger than strangers; one, who for a Dane,
In the Danes' massacre had sure been slain,
If he had liv'd then, and without help dies
When next the 'prentices 'gainst strangers rise;
One whom the watch at noon lets scarce go by;
One, t' whom th' examining justice sure would cry,
Sir, by your priesthood, tell me what you are!'
His clothes were strange, tho' coarse, and black, tho'
Sleeveless his jerkin was, and it had been [bare;
Velvet, but 'twas now (so much ground was seen)
Become tuff-taffety; and our children shall
See it plain rash awhile, then nought at all.
This thing has travell'd, speaks each language too,
And knows what's fit for ev'ry state to do;
Of whose best phrase, and courtly accent join'd
He forms one tongue, exotic and refin'd.
Talkers I've learn'd to bear; Motteux I knew ; 50
Henley himself I've heard, and Budgell too;
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 favorites in flatt'ry vie,
And Oldmixon and Burnet both outlie.
The thing hath travell'd, and, faith,speaks all-tongues,
And only knoweth what to all states belongs;
Made of the accents, and best phrase of all these
He speaks one language. If strange meats displease,
Art can deceive, or hunger force my taste;
But pedants' motley tongue, soldiers' bombast,
Mountebanks' drug-tongue, nor the terms of law,
Are strong enough preparatives to draw
Me to hear this; yet I must be content
With his tongue, in his tongue called complement ;
In which he can win widows, and pay scores,
Make men speak treason, cozen subtlest whores,
Out-flatter favorites, or outlie either
Jovius, or Surius, or both together.
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
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,
And perfect speaker ?-Onslow, past dispute.'
But, Sir, of writers? Swift for closer style,
'But Hoadly 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, (though, 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.
He names me, and comes to me; I whisper, God!
How have I sinn'd, that thy wrath's furious rod,
This fellow, chuseth me? He saith, Sir,
I love your judgment; whom do you prefer
For the best linguist ? and I sillily
Said, that I thought Calepine's Dictionary.
Nay, but of men most sweet Sir? Beza then,
Some Jesuits, and two rev'rend men
Of our two academies, I nam'd. Here
He stopp'd me, and said; Nay, your Apostles were Good pretty linguists; so Panurgus was,
Yet a poor gentleman; all these may pass
Thus, others' 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. Though, in his pictures, Lust be full display'd, Few are the converts Aretine has made; 95 And though the court show vice exceeding clear, None should, by my advice, learn virtue there.
By travail. Then, as if he would have sold
His tongue, he prais'd it, and such wonders told,
That I was fain to say, if you had liv'd, Sir,
Time enough to have been interpreter
To Babel's bricklayers, sure the Tow'r 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; Aretine's pictures have made few chaste;
No more can princes' courts, though there be few
Better pictures of vice, teach me virtue.
At this entranc'd, he lifts his hands and eyes, Squeaks like a high-stretch'd lute-string, and replies; "Oh 'tis the sweetest of all earthly things 100 "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, And get, by speaking truth of monarchs dead, What few can of the living-ease, and bread. “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. 111
He, like to a high-stretch'd lute-string squeaks, O,
'Tis sweet to talk of kings! at Westminster, [Sir !
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
Kings only; the way to it is Kings'-street.
He smack'd, and cry'd, He's base, mechanique coarse,
So'are all your Englishmen in their discourse.
Are not your Frenchmen neat? Mine, as you see,
I have but one, Sir; look, he follows me.
|