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Or Sloane or Woodward's wondrous shelves contain,
Nay, all that lying Travellers can feign.
The watch would hardly let him pafs at noon,
At night would swear him dropt out of the Moon.
One, whom the mob, when next we find or make
A popish plot, shall for a Jesuit take,

35 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, Though coarfe, was reverend, and tho' bare, was black : The suit, 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 ordaind !

Our

40

Stranger than seven Antiquaries studies,
Than Africk Monsters, Guianaes rarities,
Stranger than strangers : one who, for a Dane,
In the Danes Massacre had sure been sain,
If he had liv'd then ; and without help dies,
When next the Prentices 'gainst strangers rise;
One, whom the watch at noon lets scarce go by;
One, to whom the examining Justice sure would cry,
Sir, by your Priesthood, tell me what you are ?
His cloaths were strange, though coarse, and black,

though bare,
Sleeveless his jerkin was, and it had been
Velvet, but 'twas now (so much ground was seen)
Become Tufftaffaty; and our children shall
See it plain rafh a while, then nought at all,

50

Our fons shall see it leisurely decay,
First turn plain rash, then vanish quite away. 45

This thing has traveld, speaks each language too,
And knows what's fit for every state to do;
Of whofe 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 style, the Hash of tongues.
A Pedant makes, the storm of Gonson's lungs,
The whole Artillery of the terms of War,
And (all those Plagues in one) the bawling Bar;
These I could bear; but not a rogue so civil,
Whose tongue will compliment you to the devil.
A tongue, that can cheat Widows, cancel scores,
Make Scots speak treason, cozen subtlest whores,

With

55

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 strange meats displease, Art can deceive, or hunger force my tast; But pedants motly tongue, soldiers bumbast, 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 callid Complement : In which he can win widows, and pay scores, Make men fpeak treason, couzen subtleft whores,

65

With royal Favourites in flattery vie,

60 And Oldmixon and Burnet both outlie.

He spies me out; I whisper, Gracious God!
What sin of mine could merit such a rod ?
That all the shot of dulness now must be
From this thy blunderbuss discharg'd on me!
Permit (he cries) no stranger to your fame
To crave your sentiment, if - -'s your name.
What Speech esteem you

most? “ The King's,” said I. But the best words ?-" O Sir, the Dictionary.” You miss my aim! I mean the most acute

70 And perfect Speaker ?" Onslow, past dispute.” But, Sir, of writers? “ Swift, for closer style, “ But Hoadly for a period of a mile." Why yes, 'tis granted, these indeed may pass : Good common linguists, and so Panurge was ; 75

Nay

71

Outflatter favourites, or outlie either
Jovius, or Surius, or both together.

He names me, and comes to me; I whisper, God,
How have I sinn'd, that thy wrath's furious Rod,
This fellow, chuseth me! He faith, Sir,
I love your Judgment, whom do you prefer
For the best Linguist ? and I feelily
Said that I thought Calepines Dictionary.
Nay, but of men, most sweet Sir? Beza then,
Some Jesuits, and two reverend men
Of our two academies I nam'd. Here
He stopt me, and said, Nay your Apostles were
VOL. II.

T

80

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 fo 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 fhade?

Spirits like you, should see and should be seen, 16. The King would smile on you—at least the Queen." Ah gentle Sir! you Courtiers so cajole us

90 But Tully has it, “ Nunquam minus folus.:"

And

85

Good pretty Linguists; 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 such wonders told,
That I was fain to say, If you had liv'd, Sir,
Tune enough to have been Interpreter
To Babel's Bricklayers, sure the Tower had stood.

He adds, If of Court life you knew the good,
You would leave loneless. I said, Not alone
My loneness is; but Spartanes fashion
To teach by painting drunkards doth not last
Now, Aretine's pictures have made few chalte ;

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 ;

95 And though the Court show Vice exceeding clear, Nope should, by my advice, learn Virtue there.

At this entranc'd, he lifts his hands and eyes,
Squeaks like a high-stretch'd luteltring, 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.

105 And get by speaking truth of monarchs dead, What few can of the living, Ease and Bread.

100

« Lord,

No more can Princes Courts (though there be few
Better pictures of vice) teach me virtue.

He like to a high-stretcht Lutestring squeaks, Q. 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 meet
Kings only: the way to it is Kings-street.
He smack'd, and cry'd, He's base, mechanique, coarse,
So are all your Englishmen in their discourse.

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