Therefore I fuffer'd this; towards me did run A thing more strange, than on Nile's flime the Sun E'er bred, or all which into Noah's Ark came : A thing which would have pos'd Adam to name : Stranger than feyen Antiquaries ftudies,
Than Africk Monfters, Guianaes rarities, Stranger than ftrangers: one who, for a Dane, In the Danes Maffacre had fure been flain, If he had liv'd then; and without help dies, When next the Prentices 'gainst ftrangers rise; One whom the watch at noon lets scarce go by; One, to whom the examining Juftice fure would cry, Sir, by your Priesthood tell me what you are?
His cloaths were ftrange, tho' coarse, and black,
Sleeveless his jerkin was, and it had been Velvet, but 'twas now (fo much ground was feen) Become Tufftaffaty; and our children fhall
See it plain rash a while, then nought at all. The thing hath travail'd, and, faith, speaks all
And only knoweth what to all States belongs, Made of th' accents, and beft phrase of all thefe,
He speaks one language. If ftrange meats displease,
Scarce was I enter'd, when, behold! there came A thing which Adam had been pos'd to name; Noah had refus'd it lodging in his Ark,
Where all the Race of Reptiles might embark : A verier monfter, than on Africk's fhore The fun e'er got, or flimy Nilus bore,
Or Sloane or Woodward's wondrous shelves contain, Nay, all that lying Travellers can feign.
The watch would hardly let him pass at noon, At night, would fwear him dropt out of the Moon. One whom the mob, when next we find or make A popish plot, fhall for a Jesuit take,
And the wife Justice starting from his chair Cry, By your Priesthood tell me what you are? Such was the wight: Th' apparel on his back,
Tho' coarfe, was rev'rend, and tho' bare, was black: The fuit, if by the fashion one might guess, Was velvet in the youth of good Queen Bess, But mere tuff-taffety what now remain'd; So Time, that changes all things, had ordain'd! Our fons shall fee it leisurely decay,
Firft turn plain rash, then vanish quite away.
This thing has travel'd, speaks each language too,
And knows what's fit for ev'ry state to do;
Of whose best phrase and courtly accent join'd, He forms one tongue, exotic and refin’d.
Art can deceive, or hunger force my tast;
But pedants motly tongue, foldiers bumbaft, Mountebanks drug-tongue, nor the terms of law, Are strong 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 fpeak treason, couzen subtlest whores, Out-flatter favourites, or qut-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 you do prefer For the best Linguist? and I feelily
Said that I thought Calepines Dictionary.
Nay, but of men, moft fweet Sir? Beza then, Some Jefuits, and two reverend men
Of our two academies I nam'd; here
He ftopt me, and faid, Nay your Apoftles were
Talkers I've learn'd to bear; Motteux I knew, 50 Henley himself I've heard, and Budgel too. The Doctor's Wormwood style, 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: Thefe I could bear; but not a rogue fo civil, Whose tongue will compliment you to the devil. A tongue, that can cheat Widows, cancel stores, Make Scots speak treafon, cozen fubtleft whores, With royal Favourites in flatt'ry vie,
And Oldmixon and Burnet both out-lie.
He fpies me out; I whisper, Gracious God! What fin of mine could merit fuch a rod That all the shot of dulness now must be From this thy blunderbufs discharg'd on me! Permit (he cries) no stranger to your fame To crave your fentiment if- 's your name. What Speech efteem you most? "The King's," faid I. But the best words? O Sir, the Dictionary.”
Onflow, past dispute." Swift, for closer style,
"But Ho**y for a period of a mile." Why yes, 'tis granted, these indeed may pass: Good common linguifts, and fo Panurge was; Nay troth th' Apostles (tho' perhaps too rough) Had once a pretty gift of Tongues enough;
Good pretty Linguifts; fo Panurgus was,
Yet a poor Gentleman; all these may pass 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
To teach by painting drunkards doth not laft 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 squeaks, O
'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 :
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