But here's the Captain that will plague them both,
Whose air cries Arm! whofe very look's an oath :
The Captain's honeft, Sirs, and that's enough,
Tho' his foul's bullet, and his body buff.
He fpits fore-right; his haughty cheft before,
Like batt'ring rams, beats open ev'ry door:
And with a face as red, and as awry,
As Herod's hang-dogs in old Tapestry,
Scarecrow to boys, the breeding woman's curfe,
Has yet a strange ambition to look worse;
Confounds the civil, keeps the rude in awe,
Jefts like a licens'd fool, commands like law.
Frighted, I quit the room, but leave it fo
As men from Jayls to execution go;
For hung with deadly fins I see the wall,
And lin'd with Giants deadlier than 'em all :
Call a rough carelefnefs, good fafhion:
Whofe cloak his fpurs tear, or whom he fpits on,
He cares not, he. His ill words do no harm
To him; he rushes in, as if Arm, arın,
He meant to cry; and though his face be as ill
As theirs which in old hangings whip Christ, ftill
He ftrives to look worfe; he keeps all in awe;
Jefts like a licens'd fool, commands like law.
Tir'd, now I leave this place, and but pleas'd fo As men from goals to execution go,
Go, through the great chamber (why it is hung
With the leven deadly fins?) being among
VER. 278. For hung with deadly fins] The Room hung with
old Tapestry, reprefenting the feven deadly fins.
Each man an Afkapart, of Strength to tofs
For quoits, both Temple-bar and Charing-crofs."
Scar'd at the grizly forms, I fweat, I fly,
And thake all o'er like a difcover'd spy.
Courts are too much for wits fo weak as mine:
Charge them with Heaven's Artill'ry, bold Divine!
From fuch alone the Great rebukes endure,
Whofe Satire's facred, and whofe rage fecure:
'Tis mine to wash a few light ftains, but theirs
To deluge fin, and drown a Court in tears.
Howe'er what's now Apocrypha, my Wit,
In time to come, may pass for holy writ.
Thofe Afkaparts b, men big enough to throw
Charing-Grofs for a bar, men that do know
No token of worth, but Queens man, and fire
Living; barrels of beef, flaggons of wine.
I fhook like a fpied Spie-Preachers which are
Seats of Wit and Arts, you can, then dare,
Drown the fins of this place, but as for me
Which am but a scant brook, enough shall be
To wash the stains away: Although I yet
(With Maccabees modesty) the known merit
Of my work leffen, yet fome wife men shall,
I hope, efteem my Writs Canonical.
b A Giant famous in Romances.
O Sacred Weapon, left for Truths Defence Sole Dread of Folly, Vice and Insolence! To all but Fleaven directed Hands denied Ep. 2. to the Satires
The Muse may give thee, but the God's must quide.
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