Which he would use in his old sneaking way, Drinking all night, and dozing all the day; Dull as Ned Howard, whom his brisker times Had famed for dulness in malicious rhymes.[46] Mulgrave[47] had much ado to 'scape the snare, Though learned in all those arts that cheat the fair; For, after all his vulgar marriage-mocks, With beauty dazzled, Numps was in the stocks; Deluded parents dried their weeping eyes, To see him catch his Tartar for his prize: The impatient town waited the wished-for change, And cuckolds smiled in hopes of sweet revenge; Till Petworth plot made us with sorrow see, As his estate, his person too was free: Him no soft thoughts, no gratitude could move; To gold he fled from beauty and from love; Yet failing there he keeps his freedom still, Forced to live happily against his will; 'Tis not his fault, if too much wealth and power Break not his boasted quiet every hour. And little Sid.[48] for simile renowned, Pleasure has always sought, but never found; Though all his thoughts on wine and women fall, His are so bad, sure he ne'er thinks at all. The flesh he lives upon is rank and strong, His meat and mistresses are kept too long. But sure we all mistake this pious man, Who mortifies his person all he can: What we uncharitably take for sin, Are only rules of this odd capuchin; For never hermit, under grave pretence, Has lived more contrary to common sense; And 'tis a miracle, we may suppose, No nastiness offends his skilful nose; Which from all stink can, with peculiar art, Extract perfume and essence from a f----t. Expecting supper is his great delight; He toils all day but to be drunk at night; Then o'er his cups this night-bird chirping sits, Till he takes Hewet[49] and Jack Hall[B] for wits. Rochester I despise for want of wit, Though thought to have a tail and cloven feet; For, while he mischief means to all mankind, Himself alone the ill effects does find; And so, like witches, justly suffers shame, Whose harmless malice is so much the same. False are his words, affected is his wit; So often he does aim, so seldom hit; To every face he cringes while he speaks, But when the back is turned the head he breaks. Mean in each action, lewd in every limb, Manners themselves are mischievous in him; A proof that chance alone makes every creature, A very Killigrew without good nature. For what a Bessus[52] has he always lived, And his own kickings notably contrived? For, there's the folly that's still mixt with fear, Cowards more blows than any hero bear; Of fighting sparks some may their pleasures say, But 'tis a bolder thing to run away. The world may well forgive him all his ill, For every fault does prove his penance still; Falsely he falls into some dangerous noose,