You miss 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:

70

75

80

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 queftion but the Tow'r had stood.

85

Obliging Sir! for Courts you fure were made:

"Why then for ever bury'd in the shade? "Spirits like you, fhould fee and should be seen, "The King would fmile on you--at least 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:

NOTES.

до

poverty with the reflection that Panurge himself, the great Traveller and Linguist in Rabelais, went a begging. P

To teach by painting drunkards doth not last

Now, Aretines pictures have made few chaste;

1

No more can Princes Courts (though there be few
Better pictures of vice) teach me virtue.

He like to a high-ftretcht Lute-string squeaks, O

Sir,

'Tis sweet to talk of Kings. At Westminster, Said I, the man that keeps the Abby 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.

He fmack'd, and cry'd, He's bafe, mechanique,

course,

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 cloath'd. I of this mind am, Your only wearing is your Grogaram.

NOTES.

VER. 104. He ev'ry day from King to King can walk,] There is fomething humourous enough in the words of the Original. The way to it is Kings-freet. But the Imi

Tho' in his pictures Luft be full difplay'd,
Few are the Converts Aretine has made;
And tho' the Court fhow 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: "Oh 'tis the sweetest of all earthly things

"To gaze on Princes, and to talk of Kings! Then, happy Man who shows the Tombs! faid I, He dwells amidst the royal Family;

95

100

105

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 meer Mechanic! ftrangely low, "And coarse 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 Padua-foy." Not, Sir, my only, I have better ftill, And this you fee is but my dishabilleWild to get loose, his Patience I provoke, Mistake, confound, object at all he spoke.

NOTES.

III

115

tator has given us more than an equivalent in that fine ftroke of moral fatire in the 106 and 107th lines.

Not fo, Sir, I have more.

Under this pitch

He would not fly; I chaf'd him: but as Itch
Scratch'd into smart, and as blunt Iron groun'd
Into an edge, hurts worfe: So, I (fool) found,
Croffing hurt me. To fit my fullennefs,

He to another key his ftyle doth drefs;

And asks what news; I tell him of new playes,
He takes my hand, and as a Still which stayes
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 houthold trash: He know, he knows
When the Queen frown'd or fmil'd, and he knows what

A fubtle Statesman may gather of that;

He knows who loves whom; and who by poison

Hafts to an Offices reverfion;

Who waftes in meat, in clothes, in horse, he notes, Who loves whores

He knows who hath fold his land, and now doth beg

A licence, old iron, boots, fhoes, and egge

Shells to transport;

But as coarse iron, fharpen'd, mangles more,
And itch moft hurts when anger'd to a fore;
So when you plague a fool, 'tis ftill the curse,
You only make the matter worse and worse.

He paft it o'er; affects an easy fmile
At all my peevishness, and turns his style.

120

He afks, "What News? I tell him of new Plays, New Eunuchs, Harlequins, and Operas.

125

He hears, and as a Still with fimples in it

Between each drop it gives, ftays half a minute,

Loth to enrich me with too quick replies,

129

By little, and by little, drops his lies.

Meer houfhold trafh! of birth-nights, balls, and shows, More than ten Hollingfheads, or Halls, or Stows. 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 Reverfion 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:

135

Who in the secret, deals in Stocks fecure,

140

And cheats th' unknowing Widow and the Poor:

Who makes a Trust or Charity a Job,
And gets an Act of Parliament to rob: