As one of Woodward's patients, sick, and sore, I puke, I nauseate,--yet he thrusts in more: Trim's Europe's balance, tops the statesman's part. And talks Gazettes and Postboys o'er by heart. Like a big wife at sight of loathsome meat Ready to cast, I yawn, I sigh, and sweat. Then as a licensed spy, whom nothing can Silence or hurt, he libels the great man; Swears every place entail'd for years to come, 160 In sure succession to the day of doom: He names the price for every office paid, And says our wars thrive ill, because delay'd: Nay, hints 'tis by connivance of the court That Spain robs on, and Dunkirk's still a port. Not more amazement seized on Circe's guests, To see themselves fall endlong into beasts, Than mine, to find a subject, staid and wise, Already half turn'd traitor by surprise. I felt the infection slide from him to me, 170 As in the pox, some give it to get free; And quick to swallow me, methought I saw One of our giant statues ope its jaw. In that nice moment, as another lie Stood just a-tilt, the minister came by. To him he flies, and bows, and bows again, Then, close as Umbra, joins the dirty train. Not Fannius' self more impudently near, When half his nose is in his prince's ear. I quaked at heart; and still afraid, to see 180 All the court fill'd with stranger things than he, Ran out as fast, as one that pays his bail, And dreads more actions, hurries from a jail. Bear me, some god! oh quickly bear me hence To wholesome solitude, the nurse of sense, Where Contemplation prunes her ruffled wings, And the free soul looks down to pity kings! There sober thought pursued the amusing theme, Till fancy colour'd it, and form'd a dream. A vision hermits can to Hell transport, 190 And forced ev'n me to see the damn'd at court. Not Dante, dreaming all the infernal state, Beheld such scenes of envy, sin, and hate. Base fear becomes the guilty, not the free; Suits tyrants, plunderers, but suits not me: Shall I, the terror of this sinful town, Care if a liveried lord or smile or frown? Who cannot flatter, and detest who can, Tremble before a noble serving-man? O my fair mistress, Truth! shall I quit thee 200 For huffing, braggart, puff'd nobility? Thou, who since yesterday hast roll'd o'er all The busy, idle blockheads of the ball, Hast thou, O Sun! beheld an emptier sort, Than such as swell this bladder of a court? Now pox on those who show a court in wax! It ought to bring all courtiers on their backs: Such painted puppets! such a varnish'd race Of hollow gewgaws, only dress and face! Such waxen noses, stately staring things-- 210 No wonder some folks bow, and think them kings.