Commend his voice and singing, though he bray
Worse than Sir Martin Marr-all in the play:
And, if he rhyme, shall praise for standard wit,
More scurvy sense than Prynne, and Vicars writ.[1]
'And here's the mischief, though we say the same,
He is believed, and we are thought to sham;
Do you but smile, immediately the beast
Laughs out aloud, though he ne'er heard the jest;
Pretend you're sad, he's presently in tears,
Yet grieves no more than marble, when it wears
Sorrow in metaphor; but speak of heat,
’O God! how sultry 'tis!' he'll cry, and sweat
In depth of winter; straight, if you complain
Of cold, the weather-glass is sunk again:
Then he'll call for his frieze campaign, and swear
'Tis beyond eighty, he's in Greenland here.
Thus he shifts scenes, and oftener in a day
Can change his face than actors at a play;
There's nought so mean can 'scape the flattering sot,
Not his lord's snuff-box, nor his powder-spot;
If he but spit, or pick his teeth, he'll cry,
’How everything becomes you! let me die,
Your lordship does it most judiciously!'
And swear 'tis fashionable if he sneeze,
Extremely taking, and it needs must please.
’Besides, there's nothing sacred, nothing free
From the hot satyr's rampant lechery;
Nor wife, nor virgin-daughter can escape,
Scarce thou thyself or son avoid a rape;
All must go pad-locked; if nought else there be,
Suspect thy very stables' chastity.
By this the vermin into secrets creep,
Thus families in awe they strive to keep.
- ↑ The ’voluminous' William Prynne, who is said to have written a sheet for every day of his life; and John Vicars, an enthusiastic controversialist, whose writings abound in scurrility.
