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But mere tuff-taffety what now remain'd ;
So time, that changes all things, had ordain'd!
Our fons fhall fee it leifurely decay,

First turn plain rash, then vanish quite away. 45
This thing has travell'd, speaks each language too,
And knows what's fit for ev'ry state to do;
Of whose best phrafe and courtly action join'd,
He forms one tongue, exotic and refin'd.
Talkers I've learn'd to bear; Motteaux I knew,
Henley himself I've heard, and Budgel too. 51
The doctor's wormwood ftyle, the hash of tongues
A pedant makes, the ftorm of Gonfon'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 fo civil,
Whofe tongue will compliment you to the Devil.
A tongue, that can cheat widows, cancel fcores,
Make Scots speak treason, cozen fubtleft whores,

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Sleeveless his jerkin was, and it had been
Velvet, but 'twas now (fo much ground was feen)
Become tuff-taffety; and our children shall
See it plain rash a while, then nought at all.
The thing hath travail'd, and, faith, fpeaks all

And only knoweth what to all states belongs,
Made of th' accents, and best phrase of all these,
He fpeaks one language. If ftrange meats dif-

Art can deceive, or hunger force
my taste;
But pedants motly tongue, foldiers bumbast,
Mountebanks drug-tongue, nor the terms of law,
Are strong enough preparatives to draw

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 dulnefs now must be
From this thy blunderbufs difcharg'd on me! 65
Permit (he cries) no ftranger to your fame
To crave your sentiment, if -'s your name.
What Speech efteem you moft? "The king's,"

faid I.

But the beft words?----" O Sir, the dictionary." You miss my aim; I mean the most acute 70 And perfect Speaker?----" Onflow, paft difpute." But, Sir, of writers? "Swift for closer style, "But Ho**y for a period of a mile.”



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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 fin'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 linguift? and I feelily
Said that I thought Calepine's dictionary.
Nay, but of men, most sweet Sir? Beza then,
Some Jefuits, and two reverend men



Ver. 73. a period of a mile.] a stadium of Euripides was a ftanding joke amongst the Greeks. By the fame kind of pleafantry Cervantes has called his Hero's countenance,

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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:
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 fure tranfition 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 fo good,
Í make no question but the Tow'r had flood. 85

Of our two academies I nam'd.

He stopt me, and faid, Nay your apoftles 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 say, 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,
You would leave loneness. I faid, Not alone
My loneness is; but Spartanes fashion


a face of half a league long; which, because the humour, as well as the measure of the expreffion was exceffive, all his tranflators have judiciously agreed to omit, without doubt paying due attention to that lober rule of Quintilian, Licet omnis hyperbole fit ultra fidem, non tamen debet effe ultra modum.




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Obliging Sir! for courts you fure were made: "Why then for ever bury'd in the shade? 66 Spirits like you, fhould fee, and should be feen, "The King would fmile on you------at least the 66 Queen."



Ah, gentle Sir! you courtiers fo cajole us----
But Tully has it, Nunquam minus folus:
And as for courts, forgive me, if I say
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 should, 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 fweetest 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;


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-stretch'd lute-ftring fqueaks,
O Sir,

'Tis fweet to talk of kings. At Weftminster,
Said I, the man that keeps the abbey-tombs,
And for his price, doth with whoever comes
Of all our Harries, and our Edwards talk,
From king to king, and all their kin can walk :
Your ears fhall hear nought but kings; your eyes


Kings only the way to it is Kings-street.




He ev'ry day from king to king can walk,
Of all our Harries, all our Edward's talk,
And get by speaking truth of monarchs dead,
What few can of the living, ease, and bread.
"Lord, Sir, a mere mechanic; ftrangely low,
"And coarfe of phrafe,----you English all are fo.
"How elegant your Frenchmen ?" Mine, d'ye


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 still,
And this you fee is but my deshabille----
Wild to get loofe, 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 fore;


He fmack'd, and cry'd, he's bafe, mechanic, coarse,
So are all your Englishmen in their difcourfe.
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 grogram.

Not fo, Sir, I have more.
Under this pitch
He would not fly; I chaf'd him; but as itch
Scratch'd into fmart, and as blunt iron ground
Into an edge, hurts worfe: fo 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 ftill, which itayes

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