Talkers I've learn'd to bear; Motteux I knew, 50
Henley himself I've heard, and Budgel too.
The Doctor's wormwood ftyle, the Hash of tongues
A Pedant makes, the ftorm of Gonson's lungs,
The whole Artill'ry of the terms of War,
And (all thofe plagues in one) the bawling Bar;
Thefe I could bear; but not a rogue so civil,
Whofe tongue will compliment you to the devil.
A tongue, that can cheat Widows, cancel fcores,
Make Scots fpeak treason, cozen fubtlest whores,
With royal Favourites in flatt'ry vie,
And Oldmixon and Burnet both outlie.
He fpies me out; I whisper, Gracious God!
What fin of mine could merit fuch a rod?
That all the fhot of dulness now must be
From this thy blunderbufs discharg❜d on me!
Permit (he cries) no ftranger to your fame
To crave your fentiment, if -'s your name.
Art can deceive, or hunger force my taft;
But pedants motly tongue, fouldiers bumbaft,
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 call'd Complement:
In which he can win widows, and pay scores,
Make men fpeak treason, couzen fubtleft whores,
Outflatter favourites, or outlie either
Jovius, or Surius, or both together.
He names me, and comes to me; I whisper, God, How have I finn'd, that thy wrath's furious Rod, This fellow, chufeth me! He faith, Sir,
I love your judgment, whom do you prefer
For the best Linguist? and I feelily
Said that I thought Calepine's Dictionary.
What Speech efteem you moft?" The King's," faid I.
But the best words?" O Sir, the Dictionary.”
You mifs my aim: I mean the most acute
And perfect Speaker?" Onflow, paft difpute."
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 linguifts, and fo Panurge was;
Nay troth th' Apoftles (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.
Thus others talents having nicely shown,
He came by fure tranfition 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 linguift half fo good,
I make no queftion but the Tow'r had stood.
Obliging Sir! for Courts you fure were made:
"Why then for ever bury'd in the shade?
Nay, but of men, moft fweet Sir? Beza then,
Some Jefuits, and two reverend men
Of our two academies I nam'd.
He stopt me, and faid, Nay your Apostles were
Good pretty Linguifts; fo Panurgus was,
Yet a poor Gentleman; all these may pass
By travail. Then, as if he would have fold
His tongue, he prais'd it, and fuch wonders told,
That I was fain to fay, If you had liv'd, Sir,
Time enough to have been Interpreter
To Babel's Bricklayers, fure the Tower had stood,
He adds, If of Court life you knew the good,
"Spirits like you, fhould fee and should be seen,
"The King would fmile on you-at leaft the Queen."
Ah gentle Sir! you Courtiers fo cajol us—
But Tully has it, Nunquam minus folus :
And as for Courts, forgive me, if I fay
No leffons now are taught the Spartan way:
Tho' in his pictures Luft be full display'd,
Few are the Converts Aretine has made;
And tho' the Court fhow Vice exceeding clear,
None fhould, by my advice, learn Virtue there.
At this entranc'd, he lifts his hands and eyes,
Squeaks like a high-ftretch'd luteftring, and replies;
"Oh 'tis the sweeteft of all earthly things
"To gaze on Princes, and to talk of Kings !"
Then, happy Man who fhows the Tombs! faid 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.
You would leave loneness.
I faid, 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 Luteftring fqueaks, 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 fhall hear nought but Kings; your eyes meet Kings only the way to it is Kings-street.
"Lord, Sir, a mere Mechanic! strangely low, "And coarfe of phrafe,-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 fo! nay, let me die, "Your only wearing is your Paduafoy." Not, Sir, my only, I have better ftill, And this you fee is but my difhabilleWild to get loofe, his patience I provoke, Mistake, confound, object at all he spoke. But as coarse iron, fharpen'd, mangles more, And itch most hurts when anger'd to a fore; So when you plague a fool, 'tis ftill the curfe, You only make the matter worse and worse.
He paft it o'er; affects an easy smile
At all my peevishness, and turns his ftyle.
He afks, "What News ?" I tell him of new Plays,
New Eunuchs, Harlequins, and Operas.
He hears, and as a Still with fimples in it
Between each drop it gives, stays half a minute,
He fmack'd, and cry'd, He's bafe, mechanique, coarse,
So are all your Englishmen in their discourse.
Are not your Frenchmen neat? Mine, as you fee,
I have but one, Sir, look, he follows me.
Certes they are neatly cloth'd. I of this mind am,
Your only wearing is your Grogaram.
Not fo, Sir, I have more. Under this pitch
He would not fly; 1 chaff'd him: but as Itch
Scratch'd into fmart, and as blunt Iron ground
Into an edge, hurts worfe: So, I (fool) found,
Croffing hurt me. To fit my fullennefs,
He to another key his ftyle doth dress;
And asks what news; I tell him of new playes,
He takes my hand, and as a Still, which stayes
Loth to inrich me with too quick replies
By little, and by little, drops his lies.
Mere houthold trash of birthnights, balls, and fhows,
More than ten Holinfheads, or Halls, or Stows. 131
When the Queen frown'd, or fmil'd, he knows; and what
A fubtle Minister may make of that:
Who fins with whom: who got his Penfion rug,
Or quicken'd a Reversion by a drug:
Whofe place is quarter'd out, three parts in four,
And whether to a Bishop, or a Whore:
Who having loft his credit, pawn'd his rent,
Is therefore fit to have a Government:
Who in the fecret, deals in Stocks fecure,
And cheats th' unknowing Widow and the Poor :
Who makes a Truft of Charity a Job,
And gets an Act of Parliament to rob:
Why Turnpikes rife, and now no Cit nor Clown
Can gratis fee the country, or the town:
A Sembrief 'twixt each drop, he niggardly,
As loth to inrich me, fo tells many a ly.
More than ten Hollenfheads, or Halls, or Stows,
Of trivial houfhold trash: He knows, he knows
When the Queen frown'd or smil'd, and he knows what
A fubtle Statefman may gather of that;
He knows who loves whom; and who by poison
Hafts to an offices reversion;
Who wastes in meat, in clothes, in horfe, he notes, Who loveth whores
He knows who hath fold his land, and now doth beg A licence, old iron, boots, fhoes, and egge
fhortly boys fhall not play At fpan-counter, or blow-point, but shall pay
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