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And as for Courts, forgive me, if I fay
No leffons 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 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 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;
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, Eafe and Bread.
No more can Princes Courts (though there be few
Better pictures of vice) teach me virtue.
He like to a high-ftretcht Luteftring fqueaks, 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 meet
Kings only: the way to it is Kings-street.
He fmack'd, and cry'd, He's bafe, mechanique, coarfe,
So are all your Englishmen in their difcourfe.
"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. "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 difhabilleWild to get loose, his patience I provoke, Mistake, 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 ftill the curfe, You only make the matter worse and worse. He paft it o'er; affects an eafy fmile
At all my peevishness, and turns his style.
He afks, "What News?" I tell him of new Plays,
New Eunuchs, Harlequins, and Operas.
Are not your Frenchmen neat? Mine, as you fee,
I have but one, Sir, look, he follows me.
Certes they are neatly cloath'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 chaff'd him: but as Itch
Scratch'd into smart, and as blunt Iron ground
Into an edge, hurts worfe: So, I (fool) found,
Croffing hurt me. To fit my fullenness,
He to another key his ftyle doth dress;
He hears, and as a Still with fimples 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.
Mere houfhold trash! of birthnights, balls, and shows,
More than ten Hollinfheds, or Halls, or Stows.
When the Queen frown'd, or fmil'd, he knows; and what
A fubtle Minifter may make of that:
Who fins with whom: who got his Penfiòn rug,
Or quicken'd a Reversion by a drug :
Whofe place is quarter'd out, three parts in four,
And whether to a Bishop, or a Whore:
Who, having loft his credit, pawn'd his rent,
Is therefore fit to have a Government:
Who, in the fecret, deals in Stocks fecure,
And cheats th' unknowing Widow and the Poor:
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 enrich me, fo tells many a ly.
More than ten Hollenfheds, or Halls, or Stows,
Of trivial houshold trash: He knows, he knows
When the Queen frown'd or fmil'd, and he knows what
A fubtle Statesman may gather of that;
He knows who loves whom; and who by poifon
Hafts to an officer's reverfion;
Who wastes in meat, in clothes, in horse, he notes,
Who loveth whores
Who makes a Trust of Charity a Job,
And gets an Act of Parliament to rob:
Why Turnpikes rife, and now no Cit nor Clown
Can gratis fee the country, or the town:
Shortly no lad hall chuck, or lady vole,
But fome excifing Courtier will have toll.
He tells what Strumpet places fells for life,
What 'Squire his lands, what Citizen his wife :
At last (which proves him wiser still than all)
What Lady's face is not a whited wall,
As one of Woodward's patients, fick, and fore, I puke, I nauseate,-yet he thrusts in more: Trims Europe's balance, tops the statesman's part, And talk's Gazettes and Poftboys o'er by heart.
fhortly boys fhall not play
At fpan-counter, or blow-point, but shall pay
Toll to fome Courtier; and wifer than all us,
He knows what Lady is not painted. Thus
He with home meats cloys me. I belch, fpue, fpit,
Look pale and fickly, like a Patient, yet
He thrufts on more, and as he had undertook,
To fay Gallo Belgicus without book,
Speaks of all States, and deeds that have been fince
The Spaniards came to th' lofs of Amyens.
He knows who hath fold his land, and now doth beg
A licence, old iron, boots, shoes, and egge-
Shells to transport;
Like a big wife at fight of loathsome meat
Ready to caft, I yawn, I figh, and sweat.
Then as a licens'd fpy, whom nothing can,
Silence or hurt, he libels the great Man;
Swears every place entail'd for years to come,
In fure fucceffion to the day of doom:
He names the price for every office paid,
And fays our wars thrive ill, because delay'd:
Nay hints, 'tis by connivance of the Court,
That Spain robs on, and Dunkirk's still a Port.
Not more amazement seiz'd on Circe's guests,
To fee themselves fall endlong into beasts,
Than mine to find a subject stay'd and wife
Already half turn'd traitor by surprize.
Like a big wife, at fight of loathed meat,
Ready to travail: fó I figh, and sweat
To hear this Makaron talk: in vain, for yet,
Either my humour, or his own to fit,
He like a priviledg'd spie, whom nothing can
Difcredit, libels now 'gainst each great man.
He names the price of every office paid;
He faith our wars thrive ill becaufe delaid;
That Offices are intail'd, and that there are
Perpetuities of them, lafting as far
As the last day; and that great officers
Do with the Spaniards fhare, and Dunkirkers.
I more amaz'd than Circe's prifoners, when
They felt themselves turn beasts, felt myself then