If that brave skill then when thou didst begin To study letters, thy great wit had plied, Freely and only thy disease of pride In vulgar praise had never bound thy [hide]. JOHN DONNE. (1573-1631.) XI. THE CHARACTER OF THE BORE. From Donne's _Satires_, No. IV.; first published in the quarto edition of the "Poems" in 1633. See Dr. Grosart's interesting Essay on the Life and Writings of Donne, prefixed to Vol. II. of that scholar's excellent edition. Well; I may now receive and die. My sin Indeed is great, but yet I have been in A purgatory, such as fear'd hell is A recreation, and scant map of this. My mind neither with pride's itch, nor yet hath been Poison'd with love to see or to be seen. I had no suit there, nor new suit to shew, Yet went to court: but as Glare, which did go To mass in jest, catch'd, was fain to disburse The hundred marks, which is the statute's curse, Before he 'scap'd; so't pleas'd my Destiny (Guilty of my sin of going) to think me As prone to all ill, and of good as forget- Ful, as proud, lustful, and as much in debt, As vain, as witless, and as false as they Which dwell in court, for once going that way, Therefore I suffer'd this: Towards me did run A thing more strange than on Nile's slime the sun E'er bred, or all which into Noah's ark came; A thing which would have pos'd Adam to name: Stranger than seven antiquaries' studies, Than Afric's monsters, Guiana's rarities; Stranger than strangers; one who for a Dane In the Danes' massacre had sure been slain, 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 t' whom th' examining justice sure would cry, Sir, by your priesthood, tell me what you are. His clothes 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 rash a while, then nought at all. The thing hath travail'd, and, faith, speaks all tongues, And only knoweth what t' 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 taste; But pedant's motley tongue, soldier's bombast, Mountebank's 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 call'd Compliment; In which he can win widows, and pay scores, Make men speak treason, cozen subtlest whores, 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, chooseth me? He saith, Sir, I love your judgment; whom do you prefer For the best linguist? and I sillily