The poet's hell, its tortures, fiends, and flames,
To this were trifles, toys, and empty names.
With foolish pride my heart was never fired,
Nor the vain itch t'admire, or be admired;
I hoped for no commission from his grace;
I bought no benefice, I begg'd no place:
Had no new verses, nor new suit to shew,
Yet went to court !-the devil would have it so.
But, as the fool that in reforming days
Would go to mass in jest (as story says),
Could not but think, to pay his fine was odd,
Since 'twas no form'd design of serving God;
So was I punish'd, as if full as proud
As prone to ill, as negligent of good,
As deep in debt, without a thought to pay,
As vain, as idle, and as false, as they
Who live at court, for going once that way!
Scarce was I enter'd, when, behold! there came
A thing which Adam had been posed to name;
Noah had refused it lodging in his ark,
Where all the race of reptiles might embark :
My mind, neither with pride's itch, nor hath been Poyson'd with love to see or to be seen;
I had no suit there, nor new suit to shew,
Yet went to court; but as Glare which did go
To mass in jest, catch'd, was fain to disburse
Two hundred markes which is the statute's curse,
Before he 'scaped; so it pleased my destiny
(Guilty of my sin of going) to think me
As prone to all ill, and of good as forget-
ful, as proud, lustful, and as much in debt,
As vain, as witless, and as false, as they
Which dwell in court, for once going that way.
Therefore I suffer'd this; towards me did run
A thing more strange, than on Nile's slime the sun
E'er bred, or all which into Noah's ark came :
A thing which would have posed Adam to name;
Stranger than seven antiquaries' studies,
Than Africk monsters, Guianaes rarities,
A verier monster, than on Afric's shore
The sun e'er got, or slimy Nilus bore,
Or Sloane or Woodward's wondrous shelves contain,
Nay, all that lying travellers can feign.
The watch would hardly let him pass at noon,
At night would swear him dropp'd out of the moon.
One, whom the mob, when next we find or make
A popish plot, shall for a Jesuit take,
And the wise justice starting from his chair
Cry, By your priesthood, tell me what you are?'
Such was the wight: th' apparel on his back,
Though coarse, was reverend, and though bare, was
The suit, if by the fashion one might guess,
Was velvet in the youth of good Queen Bess,
But mere tuff-taffety what now remain'd;
So time, that changes all things, had ordain'd!
Our sons shall see it leisurely decay,
First turn plain rash, then vanish quite away.
This thing has travell'd, speaks each language too, And knows what 's tit for every state to do;
Stranger than strangers: one who, for a Dane,
In the Danes massacre had sure been slain,
If he had lived then; and without help dies,
When next the 'prentices 'gainst strangers rise;
One, whom the watch at noon scarce lets go by:
One, to whom th' examining justice sure would cry,
Sir, by your priesthood, tell me what you are?'
His clothes were strange, though coarse, and black,
though bare,
Sleeveless his jerkin was, and it had been
Velvet, but 'twas now, (so much ground was seen)
Become tuff-taffaty; and our children shall
See it plain rash a while, then nought at all.
The thing hath travail'd, and faith, speaks all
And only knoweth what to all states belongs,
Made of the accents, and best phrase of all these,
He speaks one language. If strange meats displease,
Of whose best phrase and courtly accent join'd,
He forms one tongue, exotic and refined.
Talkers I've learn'd to bear; Morteux I knew,
Henley himself I've heard, and Budgel too.
The doctor's wormwood style, the hash of tongues
A pedant makes, the storm of Gonson's lungs,
The whole artillery 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 scores,
Make Scots speak treason, cozen subtlest whores,
With royal favourites in flattery vie,
And Oldmixon and Burnet both outlie.
He spies me out; I whisper, Gracious God!
What sin of mine could merit such a rod?
That all the shot of dulness now must be
From this thy blunderbuss discharged on me!"
Permit,' he cries, no stranger to your fame
To crave your sentiment, if's your name.
Art can deceive, or hunger force my tast;
But pedants motly tongue, soldiers bumbast,
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 speak treason, couzen subtlest 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 sinn'd that thy wrath's furious rod,
This fellow, chuseth me! he saith,' Sir,
I love your judgment, whom do you prefer
For the best linguist?' and I seelily
Said that I thought Calepine's dictionary.
'Nay, but of men, most sweet sir?' Beza then,
Some Jesuists, and two reverend men
What speech esteem you most? The king's,' said I.
But the best words ? O, sir, the dictionary.'
You miss my aim! I mean the most acute
Onslow, past dispute.' But, sir, of writers ?'- Swift, for closer style, But Hoadly for a period of a mile.'
Why yes, 'tis granted, these indeed may pass ; Good common linguists, and so Panurge was ;' Nay troth th' apostles (though 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 shewn, He came by sure transition to his own: Till I cried 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 tower had stood." "Obliging sir! for courts you sure were made: Why then for ever buried in the shade?
Of our two academies I named. Here
He stopp'd me, and said, Nay, your apostles were
Good pretty linguists: so Panurgus was,
Yet a poor gentleman; all these may pass
By travail.' Then, as if he would have sold
His tongue, he praised it, and such wonders told,
That I was fain to say, If you had lived, sir,
Time enough to have been interpreter
To Babel's bricklayers, sure the tower had stood.'
He adds,' If of court life you knew the good,
You would leave loneless.' I said, Not alone
My loneless is; but Spartanes fashion
To teach by painting drunkards doth not last
Now, Aretine's 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-stretch'd lutestring squeaks,
'O sir,
'Tis sweet to talk of kings. At Westminster,'
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 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:
Though in his pictures lust be full display'd,
Few are the converts Aretine has made;
And though the court shew vice exceeding clear,
None should, by my advice, learn virtue there."
At this entranced, 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 shews the tombs!" said I,
He dwells amidst the royal family;
He every 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."
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 shall hear nought but kings; your eyes meet
Kings only: the way to it is King-street.'
He smack'd, and cried, 'He's base, mechanique,
So are all your Englishmen in their discourse.
Are not your Frenchmen neat? Mine, as you see,
I have but one, sir, look, he follows me.'
Certes, they are neatly cloathed. I of this mind am, Your only wearing is your grogaram.'
Not so, sir, I have more. Under this pitch
He would not fly: I chaff'd him: but as itch
Scratch'd into smart, and as blunt iron ground
Into an edge, hurts worse: So, I (fool) found,
Crossing hurt me. To fit my sullenness,
He to another key his style doth dress;
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