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Wants reach all states: they beg but better dress'd, And all is splendid poverty at best.
Painted for sight, and essenced for the smell, Like frigates fraught with spice and cochineal, Sail in the ladies : how each pirate eyes So weak a vessel, and so rich a prize! Top-gallant he, and she in all her trim, He boarding her, she striking sail to him : “Dear countess! you have charms all hearts to hit ?" And 'Sweet sir Fopling! you have so much wit!' Such wits and beauties are not praised for nought, For both the beauty and the wit are bought. "Twould burst e'en Heraclitus with the spleen, To see those antice, Fopling and Courtin : The presence seems, with things so richly odd, The mosque of Mahound, or some queer pagod. See them survey their limbs by Durer's rules, Of all beau-kind the best proportion'd fools !
Shall find their wardrobes inventory. Now
As pirates (which do know
well, Their beauties; they the men's wits : both are
bought. Why good wits ne'er wear scarlet gowns, I thought This cause, these men, mens wits for speeches buy, And women buy all red which scarlets dye. He call'd her beauty lime-twigs, her hair net : She fears her drugs ill lay'd, her hair loose set : Wouldn't Heraclitus laugh to see Macrine From hat to shoe, himself at door refine, As if the presence were a mosque; and lift His skirts and hose, and call his clothes to shrift, Making them confess not only mortal Great stains and holes in them, but venial Feathers and dust, wherewith they fornicate ; And then by Durer's rules survey the state Of his each limb, and with strings the odds tries Or his neck to his leg, and waste to thighs.
Adjust their clothes, and to confession draw,
Nature made every fop to plague his brother,
goes To preach, he enters, and a lady which owes Him not so much as good-will, he arrests, And unto her protests, protests, protests, So much as at Rome would serve to have thrown Ten cardinals into the Inquisition : And whispers by Jesu so oft, that a Pursuevant would have ravish'd him away For saying our lady's Psalter. But 'tis fit That they each other plague, they merit it. But here comes Glorious that will plague 'em both : Who in the other extreme only doth Call a rough carelessness good fashion : Whose cloak his spury tear, or whom he spits on, He cares not, he. His ill words do no harm To hiin; he rushes in, as if Arm, arm,
He spits fore-right ; his haughty chest before,
beats open every door:
Frighted, I quit the room, but leave it so As men from jails to execution go; For hung with deadly sins I see the wall, And lined with giants deadlier than them all: Each man an Askapart, of strength to toss For quoits, both Temple-bar and Charing-cross. Scared at the grizly forms, I sweat, I fly, And shake all o'er, like a discover'd spy. Courts are too much for wits so weak as mine
i Charge them with heaven's artillery, bold divine ! From such alone the great rebukes endure, Whose satire 's sacred, and whose rage secure; He meant to cry: and though his face be as ill As theirs which in old hangings whip Christ, still He strives to look worse; he keeps all in awe; Jests like a licensed fool, commands like law.
Tired, now, I leave this place, and but pleased As men from gaols to execution go, Go, through the great chamber (why is it hung With these seven deadly sins ?) being among Those Askaparts, men big enough to throw Charing-cross, for a bar, men that do know No token of worth, but queens man, and fine Living : barrels of beef, flaggons of wine, I shook like a spied spy- Preachers which are Seas of wit and art, you can, then dare, Drown the sins 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 own merit Of my work lessen, yet some wise men shall, I hope, esteem my writs Canonical.
"Tis mine to wash a few light stains; but theirs
EPILOGUE TO THE SATIRES.
IN TWO DIALOGUES.
WRITTEN IN MDCCXXXVIII.
DIALOGUE I. Fr. Not twice a twelvemonth you appear in print, And when it comes the court sees nothing in't. You grow correct, that once with rapture writ, And are, besides, too moral for a wit. Decay of parts, alas! we all must feelWhy now, this moment, don't I see you steal ? 'Tis all from Horace: Horace long before ye Said, “Tories call’d him Whig, and Whigs a Tory;' And taught his Romans in much better metre, ‘To laugh at fools who put their trust in Peter.'
But Horace, sir, was delicate, was nice; Bubo observes, he lash'd no sort of vice Horace would say, Sir Billy served the crown, Blunt could do business, Higgins knew the town; In Sappho touch the failings of the sex, In reverend bishops note some small neglects, And own the Spaniard did a waggish thing, Who cropp'd our ears, and sent them to the king. His sly, polite, insinuating style Could please at court, and make Augustus smile : An artful manager, that crept between His friend and shame, and was a kind of screen. But 'faith your very friends will soon be sore ; Patriots there are, who wish you'd jest no more-
And where's the glory ? 'twill be only thought
P. See Sir Robert !-hum-
F. Why yes : with Scripture still you may be free;
If any ask you, 'Who's the man so near
Laugh then at any, but at fools or foes;