Nay troth th' apostles (though 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,
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 tower 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:
Though in his pictures lust be full display'd,
Few are the converts Aretine has made;
You would leave loneless.' I said, 'Not alone
My loneless 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 (though there be few
Better pictures of vice) teach me virtue.'
He like to a high-strecht lutestring 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
Kings only: the way to it is King-street.'
He smack'd, and cry'd, He's base, mechanique,
So are your Englishmen in their discourse. [coarse,
Are not your Frenchmen neat?" Mine, as you see,
I have but one, sir, look, he follows me.'
And though the court show vice exceeding clear
None should, by my advice, learn virtue there.'
At this entranc'd, he lifts his hands and eyes, Squeaks like a high-stretch'd lutestring, 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!' said 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, 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.'
O! 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'---
'Certes they are neatly cloath'd. I of this mind am, Your only wearing is your grogram.'
'Not so, 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 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 playes,
He takes my hand, and as a still, which stayes
A sembrief 'twixt each drop, he niggardly,
As loth to enrich me, so tells many a ly.
More than ten Hollensheds, or Halls, or Stows,
Of trivial houshold trash, he knows. He knows
When the queen frown'd or smil'd; and he knows
A subtle statesman may gather of that: [what
He knows who loves whoni; and who by poison
Hasts to an officer's reversion;
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.
Mere houshold trash! of birthnights, balls, and
More than ten Hollinsheds, or Halls, or Stowes.
When the queen frown'd, or smil'd, he knows; and
A subtle minister may make of that:
[what
Who sins with whom: who got his pension rug,
Or quicken'd a reversion by a drug:
Who wastes in meat, in clothes, in horse, he notes; Who loveth whores
He knows, who hath sold his land, and now doth beg A licence, old iron, boots, shoes, and egge
* * * * * shortly boys shall not play
At span-counter, or blow-point, but shall pay
Toll to some courtier; and wiser than all us.
He knows what lady is not painted. Thus
He with home meats cloys me. I belch, spue, spit,
Look pale and sickly, like a patient, yet
He thrusts on more, and as he had undertook,
To say Gallo Belgicus without book,
Speaks of all states and deeds that have been since
The Spaniards came to th' loss of Amyens.
Like a big wife, at sight of loathed meat,
Ready to travail: so I sigh, and sweat
Whose place is quarter'd out, three parts in four,
And whether to a bishop, or a whore:
Who having lost his credit, pawn'd his rent,
Is therefore fit to have a government:
Who, in the secret, deals in stocks secure,
And cheats th' unknowing widow and the poor:
Who makes a trust of charity a job,
And gets an act of parliament to rob:
Why turnpikes rise, and now no cit nor clown,
Can gratis see the country, or the town:
Shortly no lad shall chuck, or lady vole,
But some excising courtier will have toll.
He tells what strumpet places sells 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, sick and sore, I puke, I nauseate, yet he thrusts in more:
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
Discredit, libels now 'gainst each great man.
He names the price of every office paid;
He saith our wars thrive ill, because delaid:
That offices are intail'd, and that there are
Perpetuities of them, lasting as far
As the last day; and that great officers
Do with the Spaniards share, and Dunkirkers.
I more amaz'd than Circe's prisoners, when
They felt themselves turn beasts, felt myself then
Becoming traytor, and methought I saw
One of our giant statues ope its jaw
To suck me in for hearing him: I found
That as burnt venemous leachers do grow sound
By giving others their sores, I might grow
Guilty, and be free: therefore I did show
All signs of loathing; but since I am in,
I must pay mine, and my forefathers sin
Trims Europe's balance, tops the statesman's part,
And talks gazettes and postboys o'er by heart.
Like a big wife at sight of loathsome meat,
Ready to cast, I yawn, I sigh, and sweat.
Then as a licens'd spy, who nothing can
Silence or hurt, he bels every man ;
Swears every place entail'd for years to come,
In sure succession to the day of doom:
He names the price for every office paid,
And says our wars thrive ill, because delay'd;
Nay hints, 'tis by contrivance of the court,
That Spain robs on, and Dunkirk's still a port.
Not more amazement seiz'd on Circe's guests,
To see themselves fall headlong into beasts,
Than mine to find a subject stay'd and wise
Already half turn'd traitor by surprise.
I felt th' infection slide from him to me;
As in the pox, some give it to get free;
And quick to swallow me, methought I saw
One of our giant statues ope its jaw.
To the last farthing. Therefore to my power
Toughly and stubbornly I bear; but th' hower
Of mercy was now come: he tries to bring
Me to pay a fine to 'scape a torturing. [ingly?'
And says, 'Sir, can you spare me? I said, ' Will-
Nay, sir, can you spare me a crown?' Thankfully I
Gave it, as ransom; but as fidlers, still,
Though they be paid to be gone, yet needs will
Thrust one more jigg upon you: so did he
With his long complimental thanks vex me.
But he is gone, thanks to his needy want,
And the prerogative of my crown; scant
His thanks were ended, when I (which did see
All the court fill'd with more strange things than he)
Ran from thence with such, or more haste than one
Who fears more actions, doth hast from prison.
At home in wholesome solitariness
My piteous soul began the wretchedness
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