This thing has travell'd, speaks each language too, And knows what's fit for ev'ry state to do;
Of whose best phrase, and courtly accent join'd
He forms one tongue, exotic and refin'd.
Talkers I've learn'd to bear; Motteux I knew;
Henley himself I've heard, and Budgell too;
The Doctor's wormwood style, the hash 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 scores,
Make Scots speak treason, cozen subtlest whores,
With royal favourites in flatt'ry vie,
And Oldmixon and Burnet both outlie.
The thing hath travell'd, and, faith, speaks all-tongues,
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,
Art can deceive, or hunger force my taste;
But pedants' motley tongue, soldiers' bombast,
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 called complement;
In which he can win widows, and pay scores,
Make men speak treason, cozen subtlest whores,
Out-flatter favourites, or outlie either
Jovius, or Surius, or both together.
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 discharg'd on me! Permit, he cries, no stranger 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 Dictionary.
You miss my aim; I mean the most acute,
And perfect speaker?---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, (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.
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 sillily
Said, that I thought Calepine's Dictionary.
Nay, but of men most sweet Sir? Beza then,
Some Jesuits, and two rev'rend men
Of our two academies, I nam'd. 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
Thus, others' talents having nicely shown,
He came by sure transition 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 linguist half so good,
I make no question but the Tow'r had stood.
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! you 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.
Tho' in his pictures Lust be full display'd,
Few are the converts Aretine has made;
And tho' the court show vice exceeding clear,
None should, by my advice, learn virtue there.
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 Babel's bricklayers, sure the Tow'r 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; Aretine's pictures have made few chaste;
No more can princes' courts, tho' there be few
Better pictures of vice, teach me virtue.
At this entranc'd, he lifts his hands and eyes,
Squeaks like a high-stretch'd lute-string, and replies;
Oh 'tis he 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,
And get, by speaking truth of monarchs dead,
What few can of the living---ease, and bread.
Lord, Sir, a mere mechanic! strangely low,
And coarse of phrase---your English all are so.
How elegant your Frenchmen! Mine, d'ye mean?
I have but one, I hope the fellow's clean.
He, like to a high-stretch'd lute-string squeaks, 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 shall hear nought but kings; your eyes meet
Kings only; the way to it is Kings'-street.
He smack'd, and cry'd, He's base, mechanique
Soare all your Englishmen in their discourse.
Are not your Frenchmen neat? Mine, as you see,
I have but one, Sir; look, he follows me.
Oh! Sir, politely so! nay, let me die,
Your only wearing is your Paduasoy.
Not, Sir, my only; I have better still,
And this you see is but my dishabille---
Wild to get loose, 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 sore,
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 style.
He asks, what news? I tell him of new plays,
New eunuchs, harlequins, and operas.
He hears, and as a still, with simples in it,
Between each drop it gives, stays half a minute,
Loth to enrich me with too quick replies,
By little, and by little, drops his lies.
Certes, they are neatly cloth'd. 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 chaf'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,
And asks, what news? I tell him of new plays:
He takes my hands, and as à still, which stays
A sembrief 'twixt each drop, he niggardly,
As loath to inrich me, so tells many a lye.
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