Beauty like Wit, can only charm when new;
Is there no Merit then in being true?
Wit rather should an Estimation hold
With Wine, which is still best for being old.
Judgment in both, with vast Expence and Thought,
You from their native Soil, from Paris brought:
The Drops that from that sacred Sodom fall,
You like industrious Spiders suck up all.
Well might the French a Conquest here design,
Were but their Swords as dangerous as their Wine.
Their Education yet is worse than both;
They make our Virgins Nuns, unman our Youth.
We that don’t know ‘em, think ‘em Monsters too;
And will, because we judge of them by you.
You’ll say this once was so, but now you’re grown
So wise t’invent new Follies of your own:
Their slavish Imitations you disdain;
A Pox of Fops that purchase Fame with Pain:
You’re no such Fools as first to mount a Wall,
Or for your King and Country venture all.
With such like grinning Honour ’twas perchance,
Your dull Forefathers first did conquer France.
Whilst they have sent us, in Revenge for these,
Their Women, Wine, Religion, and Disease.
Yet for Religion, it’s not much will down,
In this ungirt, unblest, and mutinous Town.
Nay, I dare swear, not one of you in seven,
E’er had the Impudence to hope for Heaven.
In this you’re modest —
But as to Wit, most aim before their time,
And he that cannot spell, sets up for Rhyme:
They’re Sparks who are of Noise and Nonsense full,
At fifteen witty, and at twenty dull;
That in the Pit can huff, and talk hard Words,
And briskly draw Bamboo instead of Swords:
But never yet Rencounter cou’d compare
To our late vigorous Tartarian War:
Cudgel the Weapon was, the Pit the Field;
Fierce was the Hero, and too brave to yield.
But stoutest Hearts must bow; and being well can’d,
He crys, Hold, hold, you have the Victory gained.
All laughing call —
Turn out the Rascal, the eternal Blockhead;
— Zounds, crys Tartarian, I am out of Pocket:
Half Crown my Play, Sixpence my Orange cast;
Equip me that, do you the Conquest boast.
For which to lie at ease, a Gathering’s made,
And out they turn the Brother of the Blade.
— This is the Fruit of Idleness and Ease:
Heaven bless the King that keeps the Land in Peace,
Or he’ll be sweetly served by such as these.