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The thing hath travail'd, and, faith, speaks all

tongues, And only knoweth what to all States belongs, Made of th' accents, and best phrase of all these, He speaks one language. If strange meats displease, Art can deceive, or hunger force my taft; But pedants motly tongue, souldiers bumbast, Mountebanks drug-tongue, nor the termes of law, Are ftrong enough preparatives to draw Me to hear this, yet I must be content With his tongue, in his tongue callid Complement: In which he can win widows, and pay scores, Make men speak treason, couzen subtleft whores, Out-fatter favourites, or out-lie 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, This fellow, chuseth me! He faith, Sir, I love your judgment, whom do you prefer For the best Linguist ? and I feelily Said that I thought Calepines Dictionary.

Our fons shall see it leisurely decay,
First turn plain rash, then vanish quite away. 45

This thing has traveld, speaks each language too,
And knows what's fit for every 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, 50
Henley himself I've heard, and Budgel too.
The Doctor's Wormwood style, the Hash of tongues
A Pedant makes, the storm of Gonfon's lungs,
The whole Artill’ry of the terms of War,
And all those plagues in one) the bawling Bar: 55
These I cou'd 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,

60 And Oldmixon and Burnet both out-lie.

He spies me out, I whisper, Gracious God!
What fin 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 L.”
But the best words?_66 ( Sir, the Dictionary.

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65

Nay, but of men, most sweet Sir? Beza then,

Some Jesuits, and two reverend men

Of our two academies I nam’d: here

He stopt me, and said, Nay your Apostles were

Good pretty Linguists; fo Panurgus was,

Yet a poor Gentleman; all these may pass

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 Babels Bricklayers, sure the Tower 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

Notes.

Ver. 78. Yet these were all poor Gentlemen!] Our Poet has here added to the humour of his original. Donne makes his thread-bare Traveller content himself under his

You miss my aim; I mean the most acute 70 And perfect Speaker?

- “ Onslow, past dispute.” But, Sir, of writers ? “ Swift; for closer style, " But Ho**y for a period of a mile.” Why yes, 'tis granted, there indeed may pass : Good common linguists, and so 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 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.

85 “ 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 cajol us- go But Tully has it, Nunquam minus folus ; And as for Courts, forgive me, if I say No leffons bow are taught the Spartan way:

NOTES. poverty with the reflection that Panurge himself, the great Traveller and Linguift in Rabelais, weat a begging.

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To teach by painting drunkards doth not last
Now, Aretines 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-stretchț Lute-string squeaks, O

Sir,
'Tis sweet to talk of Kings. At Westminster,
Said I, the man that keeps the Abby 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,

course, 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 cloath'd. I of this mind am, Your only wearing is your Grogaram.

NOTES. VER. 104. He ev'ry day from King to King can walk, ] There is something humourous enough in the words of the Original. The way to it is Kings-fireet. But the Imi.

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