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Talkers I've learn'd to bear; Motteux I knew,

50 Henley himself I've heard, and Budgel too. The Doctor's Wormwood style, the Halh 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 :: 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 stores, Make Scots speak treason, cozen subtleft whores, With royal Favourites in flatt’ry vie,

60 And Oldmixon and Burnet both out-lie.

He spies me out; I whisper, Gracious God!
What fin of mine could merit such a rod
That all the shot of dulness now must be
From this thy blunderbuss discharg'd on me!

605 Permit (he cries.) no ftranger 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 Di&tionary." You miss my aim; I mean the most acute And perfect Speaker ? Ondow, past dispute." But, Sir, of writers. Swift, for closer style, “ Bat Ho**y for a period of a mile.” Why yes, 'tis granted, these indeed may pass : Good common linguists, and fo Panurge was; 75 Nay troth th' Apostles (tho' perhaps too rough) Had once a pretty gift of Tongues enough:


Good pretty Linguists ; fo Panurgus was,
Yet a poor Gentleman ; all these may pass
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 Babels 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 chafte;
No more can Princes Courts (though there be few
Better pictures of vice) teach me virtue.
He like to a high-stretcht Lute-string squeaks, O

'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 :

Yet these were all poor Gentlemen! I dare
Affirm, 'twas Travel made them what they were.

Thus others talents having nicely shown, 80
He came by sure transition to his own :
Till I cry'd out, You prove yourself fo able,
Pity! you was not Druggerman at Babel ;,
For had they found a linguist half so good
I make nd 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! your Courtiers so cajol us 90 But Tully has it, Nunquam minus folus : 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, “ 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

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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,

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; I chaf'd him: but as Itch
Scratch'd into smart, and as blunt Iron ground
Into an edge, hurts worse: So, I (fool) found,
Croffing hurt me. To fit my fullenness,
He to another key his style doth dress;
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, so tells many a ly.
More than ten Hollenfheads, or Halls, or Stows,
Of trivial houshold tralh: He knows, he knows


And get by speaking truth of monarchs dead, What few can of the living, Ease and Bread. " Lord, Sir, a meer Mechanic ; strangely low, “ And coarse of phrase,--your Englila all are fo. “ 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 still, And this

see is but


Wild to get loose, his patience I provoke,
Miftake, confound, object at all he spoke.
But as coarse iron, sharpen'd, mangles more,
And itch moft hurts when anger'd to a fore;
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 ftyle. 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 inrich me with too quick replies, By little, and by little, drops his lies. Meer hou hold trash! of birth-nights, balls, and

shows, More than ten Hollinsheads, or Halls, or Stows.

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