His office keeps your parchment fates entire, He starves with cold to save them from the fire;For you he walks the streets through rain or dust, For not in chariots Peter puts his trust;For you he sweats and labours at the laws, Takes God to witness he affects your cause, And lies to every lord in every thing, Like a king's favourite--or like a king.
These are the talents that adorn them all, From wicked waters even to godly * *Not more of simony beneath black gowns, Nor more of bastardy in heirs to crowns.
In shillings and in pence at first they deal;And steal so little, few perceive they steal;Till, like the sea, they compass all the land, From Scots to Wight, from mount to Dover strand:
And when rank widows purchase luscious nights, Or when a duke to Jansen punts at White's, Or City-heir in mortgage melts away;Satan himself feels far less joy than they.
Piecemeal they win this acre first, then that, Glean on, and gather up the whole estate.
Then strongly fencing ill-got wealth by law, Indentures, covenants, articles thy draw, Large as the fields themselves, and larger far Than civil codes, with all their glosses, are;So vast, our new divines, we must confess, Are fathers of the Church for writing less.
But let them write for you, each rogue impairs The deeds, and dexterously omits, ses heires;No commentator can more slily pass O'er a learned, unintelligible place;Or, in quotation, shrewd divines leave out Those words, that would against them clear the doubt.
So Luther thought the Paternoster long, When doomed to say his beads and even-song;But having cast his cowl, and left those laws, Adds to Christ's prayer, the Power and Glory clause.
The lands are bought; but where are to be found Those ancient woods, that shaded all the ground?
We see no new-built palaces aspire, No kitchens emulate the vestal fire.
Where are those troops of poor, that thronged of yore The good old landlord's hospitable door?
Well, I could wish, that still in lordly domes Some beasts were killed, though not whole hecatombs;That both extremes were banished from their walls, Carthusian fasts, and fulsome bacchanals;And all mankind might that just mean observe, In which none e'er could surfeit, none could starve.
These as good works, 'tis true, we all allow;But oh! these works are not in fashion now:
Like rich old wardrobes, things extremely rare, Extremely fine, but what no man will wear.
Thus much I've said, I trust, without offence;Let no Court sycophant pervert my sense, Nor sly informer watch these words to draw Within the reach of treason, or the law.
SATIRE IV.
Well, if it be my time to quit the stage, Adieu to all the follies of the age!
I die in charity with fool and knave, Secure of peace at least beyond the grave.
I've had my purgatory here betimes, And paid for all my satires, all my rhymes.
The poet's hell, its tortures, fiends, and flames, To this were trifles, toys, and empty names.
With foolish pride my heart was never fired, Nor the vain itch to admire, or be admired;I hoped for no commission from his Grace;I bought no benefice, I begged no place;
Had no new verses, nor new suit to show;
Yet went to Court!--the Devil would have it so.
But, as the fool that in reforming days Would go to Mass in jest (as story says)Could not but think, to pay his fine was odd, Since 'twas no formed design of serving God;So was I punished, as if full as proud As prone to ill, as negligent of good, As deep in debt, without a thought to pay,)As vain, as idle, and as false, as they )Who live at Court, for going once that way! )Scarce was I entered, when, behold! there came A thing which Adam had been posed to name;Noah had refused it lodging in his Ark, Where all the race of reptiles might embark:
A verier monster, that on Afric's shore The sun e'er got, or slimy 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 swear him dropped out of the moon.
One whom the mob, when next we find or make A Popish plot, shall for a Jesuit take, And the wise Justice starting from his chair Cry: "By your priesthood tell me what you are?"Such was the wight; the apparel on his back Though coarse, was reverend, and though 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 remained;So time, that changes all things, had ordained!
Our sons shall see it leisurely decay, First turn plain rash, then vanish quite away.
This thing has travelled, speaks each language too, And know what's fit for very state to do;Of whose best phrase and courtly accent joined, He forms one tongue, exotic and refined, Talkers I've learned 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 w***es, With royal favourites in flattery vie, 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 discharged 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 And perfect speaker?"--"Onslow, past 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;Nay troth the Apostles (though perhaps too rough)Had once a pretty gift of tongues enough:
