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 ftrange meats difpleafe,
Art can deceive, or hunger force my taft;
But pedants motly tongue, fouldiers 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 call'd Complement:
In which he can win widows, and pay scores,
Make men speak treason, couzen subtleft whores,
Out-flatter 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, chufeth me! He faith, Sir,

I love your judgment, whom do you prefer
For the best Linguift? and I feelily

Said that I thought Calepines Dictionary.

Our fons fhall fee it leisurely decay,

First turn plain rafh, then vanish quite away.

45

50

This thing has travel'd, 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, Henley himself I've heard, and Budgel too. The Doctor's Wormwood ftyle, the Hash of tongues A Pedant makes, the storm of Gonfon's lungs, The whole Artill'ry of the terms of War, And (all thofe plagues in one) the bawling Bar: These I cou'd bear; but not a rogue fo civil, Whose tongue will compliment you to the devil. A tongue, that can cheat widows, cancel fcores, Make Scots speak treafon, cozen fubtleft whores, With royal Favourites in flatt'ry vie,

And Oldmixon and Burnet both out-lie.

He spies me out, I whisper, Gracious God! What fin of mine could merit fuch a rod?

55

60

65

That all the shot of dulness now must be
From this thy blunderbuss 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 best words?" O Sir, the Dictionary."

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

Some Jefuits, and two reverend men

Of our two academies I nam'd: here

He ftopt me, and faid, Nay your Apostles were
Good pretty Linguifts; fo Panurgus was,

Yet a poor Gentleman; all these 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 say, If you had liv'd, Sir,

Time enough to have been Interpreter

To Babels Bricklayers, fure the Tower had flood.
He adds, If of Court life you knew the good,
You would leave loneness. I faid, 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 mifs my
And perfect Speaker?" Onflow, paft difpute."
But, Sir, of writers?" Swift, for clofer style,
But Ho**y for a period of a mile."

aim; I mean the most acute

Why yes, 'tis granted, thefe indeed may pafs:
Good common linguifts, and fo Panurge was;
Nay troth th' Apoftles (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 fhown,

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 linguift half fo good,
I make no queftion but the Tow'r had ftood.

70

75

80

85

Obliging Sir! for Courts you fure were made:

Why then for ever bury'd in the shade?

Spirits like you, fhould fee and fhould be feen, The King would smile on you--at least the Queen. Ah gentle Sir! you Courtiers fo cajol 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:

NOTES.

99

poverty with the reflection that Panurge himself, the great Traveller and Linguist in Rabelais, went a begging.

* P

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-ftretcht 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 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 base, mechanique,

course,

So are all your Englishmen in their discourse. -
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.

NOTES.

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