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The thing hath travail d, and, faith, speaks all
He names me, and comes to me; I whisper, God,
Our fons shall see it leisurely decay,
This thing has traveld, speaks each language too,
60 And Oldmixon and Burnet both out-lie.
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! 65 Permit (he cries) no ftranger to your fame To crave your sentiment, ifm-'s your name. What Speech esteem you most ? " The King's, said I.” But the best words?" O Sir, the 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
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,
Time enough to have been Interpreter
To Babels Bricklayers, sure the Tower had ftood.
He adds, If of Court life you knew the good,
You would leave loneness.
I said, Not alone
My loneness is ; but Spartanes fashion
Notes, VER. 78. Yet these were all peor Gentlemen!] Our Poet has here added to the humour of his original. Donne makes his thread-bare Traveller content himself under his
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 food.
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 fo 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:
Nores. poverty with the reflection that Panurge himself, the grea: *Traveler and Linguist in Rabelais, weat a begging.
To teach by painting drunkards doth not last
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.