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The doctor's wormwood style, the hash of tongues
He spies me out; I whisper, Gracious God!
That I was fain to say, If you had liv’d, Sir,
He adds, If of court life you knew the good,
He like to a high-stretcht lutestring squeaks, O Sir,
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.
Who wastes in meat, in clothes, in horse, he notes,
shortly boys shall not play
humour, or his own to fit,
“ 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 :
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