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You miss my aim; I mean the most acute 70
And perfect Speaker ? — “ Onslow, paft dispute."
But, Sir, of writers ? “ Swift, for closer style,
“ But Ho**y for a period of a mile.”
Why yes, 'tis granted, these 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

90 But Tully has it, Nunquam minus folus : And as for Courts, forgive me, if I say No lessons now are taught the Spartan way:

Notes. poverty with the reflection that Panurge himself, the greas Traveller and Linguift in Rabelais, went 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-stretcht Lute-string fqueaks, 0

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-freet. But the Imi.

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Tho' in his pictures Lust be full display'd,
Few are the Converts Aretine has made; 95
And tho' 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 100 6. 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 ev'ry day, from King to King can walk, Of all our Harries, all our Edwards talk, 105 And get by speaking truth of monarchs dead, What few can of the living, Ease and Bread. 6 Lord, Sir, a meer Mechanic! strangely low, « And coarse of phrase,---your English all are so. 6 How elegant your Frenchmen?” Mine, d’ye mean? I have but one, I hope the fellow's clean. III 6 Oh! Șir, politely so! nay, let me die, " Your only wearing is your Padua-foy.” Not, Sir, my only, I have better still, And this you see is but my dishabille

I15 Wild to get loose, his Patience I provoke, Mistake, confound, object at all he spoke.

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Notes. tator has given us more than an equivalent in that fine stroke of moral satire in the 106 and 107 the lines.

Not so, Sir, I have more. Under this pitch
He would not fly ; I chaf'd him: but as Itch
Scratch'd into smart, and as blunt Iron groun’d
Into an edge, hurts worse : So, I (fool) found,
Crossing hurt me. To fit my fullenness,
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 inrich me, so tells many a ly.
More than ten Hollensheads, or Halls, or Stows,
Of trivial hou hold trash : He know, he knows
When the Queen frown'd or smild, and he knows what
A subtle Statesman may gather of that;
He knows who loves whom; and who by poison
Hafts to an Offices reversion;
Who wastes in meat, in clothes, in horse, he notes,

Who loves whores ...............

He knows who hath fold his land, and now doth beg

A licence, old iron, boots, shoes, and egge-
Shells to transport;

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, 120
You only make the matter worse and worse.

He past it o'er; affects an easy smile
At all my peevilhness, and turns his style.
He asks, “ What News ? I tell him of new Plays,
New Eunuchs, Harlequins, and Operas. 125
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. . 129
Meer houshold trash! of birth-nights, balls, and lows,
More than ten Hollingsheads, or Halls, or Stows.
When the Queen frown’d, or smild, he knows; and

what
it A subtle Minister may make of that:

Who sins with whom: who got his Pension rug,
Or quicken'd a Reversion by a drug:

135 [ 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, 140
And cheats th’ unknowing Widow and the Poor :
Who makes a Trust or Charity a Job,
And gets an Act of Parliament to rob:

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