WELL; if it be my time to quit the ftage,
Adieu to all the follies of the age!
I die in charity with fool and knave,
Secure of peace at leaft beyond the grave.
I've had my purgatory here betimes,
And paid for all my fatires, all my rhymes.
The poets' hell, its tortures, fiends, and flames,
To this were trifles, toys, and empty names.
With foolish pride my heart was never fir'd,
Nor the vain itch t' admire or be admir'd;
I hop'd for no commiffion from his Grace;
I bought no benefice, I begg'd no place;
Had no new verfes nor new fuit to fhow,
Yet went to Court!-the devil would have it fo.
But as the fool that in reforming days
Would go to mafs in jeft, (as story says,)
Could not but think to pay his fine was odd,
Since 't was no form'd defign of ferving God,
So was I punifh'd, as if full as proud,
As prone to ill, and negligent of good,
WELL; may now receive and die. My fin
Indeed is great, but yet I have been in
A Purgatory, fuch as fear'd hell is
A recreation, and fcant map of this.
My mind neither with pride's itch, nor yet hath been Poifon'd with love to fee or to be seen.
I had no fuit there, nor new fuit to show,
Yet went to court: but as Glare, which did go
To mafs in jeft, catch'd, was fain to disburse
The hundred marks, which is the ftatute's curse,
Before he 'fcap'd; fo 't pleas'd my destiny
(Guilty of my fin of going) to think me
As prone to all ill, and of good as forget-
Full, as proud, luftful, and as much in debt,
As deep in debt, without a thought to pay,
As vain, as idle, and as falfe, 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 pos'd to name;
Noah had refus'd it lodging in his ark,
Where all the race of reptiles might embark:
A verier monster than on Afric's fhore
The fun e'er got, or flimy Nilus bore,
Or Sloane or Woodward's wondrous fhelves contain,
Nay, all that lying travellers can feign.
The watch would hardly let him pass at noon,
At night would fwear him dropp'd out of the moon :
One whom the mob, when next we find or make
A Popish plot, fhall for a Jefuit take,
And the wife juftice, starting from his chair,
Cry, by your priesthood, tell me what you are?
Such was the wight: the apparel on his back,
Tho' coarfe was rev'rend, and tho' bare was black:
The fuit, if by the fashion one might guefs,
Was velvet in the youth of good Queen Befs,
As vain, as witless, and as falfe as they
Which dwell in court, for once going that way,
Therefore I fuffer'd this. Towards me did run
A thing more ftrange than on Nile's flime the fun
E'er bred, or all which into Noah's ark came;
A thing which would have pos'd Adam to name:
Stranger than feven antiquaries' studies,
Than Afric's monsters, Guiana's rarities;
Stranger than ftrangers; one who for a Dane
In the Danes' maffacre had sure been slain,
If he had liv'd then, and without help dies
When next the 'prentices 'gainst strangers rife :
One whom the watch at noon lets fcarce go by;
One t' whom th' examining justice fure would cry,
Sir, by your priesthood, tell me what you are?
His cloaths were ftrange tho' coarse, and black tho' bare;
Sleeveless his jerkin was, and it had been
Velvet, but 't was now (fo much ground was feen)
But mere tufftaffety what now remain'd;
So Time, that changes all things, had ordain'd!
Our fons fhall fee it leifurely decay,
First turn plain rafh, then vanish quite away.
This thing has travell'd, fpeaks each language too, And knows what's fit for ev'ry state to do; Of whofe beft phrafe 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 ftyle, the hash of tongues A pedant makes, the form 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 scores, Make Scots fpeak treafon, cozen fubtleft whores, With royal favourites in flatt'ry vie, And Oldmixon and Burnet both outlie.
He fpies me out; I whifper, gracious God! What fin of mine could merit fuch a rod ?
Become tufftaffety; and our children shall
See it plain rafh a while, then nought at all.
The thing hath travell'd, and, faith, fpeaks all tongues,
And only knoweth what to all ftates belongs;
Made of the accents and best phrafe of all these
He fpeaks one language. If ftrange meats displease,
Art can deceive or hunger force my taste;
But pedants' motley tongue, foldiers' bombaft,
Mountebanks' drug-tongue, nor the terms of law,
Are ftrong 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 fpeak treafon, cozen fubtleft whores,
Out-flatter favourites, or outlie either
Jovius or Surius, or both together.
He names me, and comes to me: I whisper, God!
How have I finn'd, that thy wrath's furious rod,
That all the fhot of Dulness now must be
From this thy blunderbufs discharg'd on me!
Permit, he cries, no ftranger to your fame,
To crave your fentiment, if -'s your name.
What speech efteem you moft? The King's, faid I.
But the beft words?—O, Sir, the Dictionary.
You mifs my aim; I mean the most acute,
And perfect speaker-Onflow, paft difpute.
But, Sir, of writers? Swift for clofer style,'
But Hoadly for a period of a mile.
Why, yes, 'tis granted, thefe indeed may pass;
Good common linguifts, and fo Panurge was;
Nay, troth the Apoftles (tho' perhaps too rough)
Had once a pretty gift of tongues enough:
Yet thefe 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;
Till I cry'd out, You prove yourself so able,
Pity you was not druggerman at Babel;
For had they found a linguist half fo good,
I make no queftion but the Tow'r had stood.
Obliging Sir! for courts you fure were made,
Why then for ever bury'd in the shade ?
This fellow chufeth me? He faith, Sir,
I love your judgment; whom do you prefer
For the beft linguift? and I fillily
Said, that I thought Calepine's Dictionary.
Nay, but of men? moft fweet Sir! Beza, then,
Some Jefuits, and two rev'rend men
Of our two academies, I nam'd.
He ftopt me, and faid; Nay, your Apostles were
Good pretty linguifts; fo Panurgus was,
Yet a poor gentleman; all thefe may pafs
By travail. Then, as if he would have fold
His tongue he prais'd it, and fuch wonders told,
That I was fain to fay, if you had liv'd, Sir,
Time enough to have been interpreter
To Babel's bricklayers, fure the Tow'r had ftood.
He adds, If of court-life you knew the good
Spirits like you should fee and should be feen;
The King would fimile on you-at least the Queen.
Ah, gentle Sir! you courtiers fo cajole 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.
Tho' in his pictures Luft be full display'd,
Few are the converts Aretine has made;
And tho' the Court show vice exceeding clear,
None fhould, by my advice, learn virtue there.
At this entranc'd, he lifts his hands and eyes,
Squeaks like a bigh-ftretch'd luteftring, 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;
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! ftrangely low,
And coarse of phrase your English all are fo.
You would leave loneness. I faid, Not alone
My loneness is; but Spartanes' fashion;
To teach by painting drunkards, doth not laft
Now; Aretine's pictures have made few chafte;
No more can princes' courts, tho' there be few
Better pictures of vice, teach me virtue.
He, like to a high-ftretch'd luteftring squeakt, O, Sir!
'Tis fweet 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 fhall hear nought but kings; your eyes
Kings only; the way to it is King's-freet.
He Imack'd and cry'd, He's bafe, mechanique coarfe,
So're all your Englishmen in their discourse.
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