With whom each rhyming fool keeps such a pother, They are as common that way as the other: Yet sauntering Charles, between his beastly brace,[53] Meets with dissembling still in either place, Affected humour, or a painted face. In loyal libels we have often told him, How one has jilted him, the other sold him: How that affects to laugh, how this to weep; 70 But who can rail so long as he can sleep? Was ever prince by two at once misled, False, foolish, old, ill-natured, and ill-bred? Earnely[54] and Aylesbury[55] with all that race Of busy blockheads, shall have here no place; At council set as foils on Danby's[56] score, To make that great false jewel shine the more; Who all that while was thought exceeding wise, Only for taking pains and telling lies. But there's no meddling with such nauseous men; 80 Their very names have tired my lazy pen: 'Tis time to quit their company, and choose Some fitter subject for sharper muse. First, let's behold the merriest man alive[57] Against his careless genius vainly strive; Quit his dear ease, some deep design to lay, 'Gainst a set time, and then forget the day: Yet he will laugh at his best friends, and be Just as good company as Nokes and Lee.[58] But when he aims at reason or at rule, 90 He turns himself the best to ridicule; Let him at business ne'er so earnest sit, Show him but mirth, and bait that mirth with wit; That shadow of a jest shall be enjoy'd, Though he left all mankind to be destroy'd. So cat transform'd sat gravely and demure, Till mouse appear'd, and thought himself secure; But soon the lady had him in her eye, And from her friend did just as oddly fly. Reaching above our nature does no good; 100 We must fall back to our old flesh and blood; As by our little Machiavel we find That nimblest creature of the busy kind, His limbs are crippled, and his body shakes; Yet his hard mind which all this bustle makes, No pity of its poor companion takes. What gravity can hold from laughing out, To see him drag his feeble legs about, Like hounds ill-coupled? Jowler lugs him still Through hedges, ditches, and through all that's ill. 110 'Twere crime in any man but him alone, To use a body so, though 'tis one's own: Yet this false comfort never gives him o'er, That whilst he creeps his vigorous thoughts can soar; Alas! that soaring to those few that know, Is but a busy grovelling here below. So men in rapture think they mount the sky, Whilst on the ground the entranced wretches lie: So modern fops have fancied they could fly. As the new earl,[59] with parts deserving praise, 120 And wit enough to laugh at his own ways, Yet loses all soft days and sensual nights, Kind nature checks, and kinder fortune slights; Striving against his quiet all he can,