And gapes for some grinding monopoly; He that in effeminate invention, In beastly source of all pollution, In riot, lust, and fleshly seeming sweetness, Sleeps sound, secure, under the shade of greatness? Mean'st thou that senseless, sensual epicure-- That sink of filth, that guzzel[517] most impure-- What, he? Lynceus, on my word thus presume, 40 He's nought but clothes, and scenting sweet perfume; His very soul, assure thee, Lynceus, Is not so big as is an atomus: Nay, he is spriteless, sense or soul hath none, Since last Medusa turn'd him to a stone. A man, a man! Lo, yonder I espy The shade of Nestor in sad gravity. Since old Silenus brake his ass's back, He now is forc'd his paunch and guts to pack In a fair tumbrel.[518] Why, sour satirist, 50 Canst thou unman him? Here I dare insist And soothly say, he is a perfect soul, Eats nectar, drinks ambrosia, sans control; An inundation of felicity Fats him with honour and huge treasury. Canst thou not, Lynceus, cast thy searching eye, And spy his imminent[519] catastrophe? He's but a sponge, and shortly needs must leese[520] His wrong-got juice, when greatness' fist shall squeeze His liquor out. Would not some shallow[521] head, 60 That is with seeming shadows only fed, Swear yon same damask-coat, yon garded[522] man, Were some grave sober Cato Utican? When, let him but in judgment's sight uncase, He's naught but budge,[523] old gards, brown fox-fur face; He hath no soul the which the Stagyrite Term'd rational: for beastly appetite, Base dunghill thoughts, and sensual action, Hath made him lose that fair creation. And now no man, since Circe's magic charm 70 Hath turn'd him to a maggot that doth swarm In tainted flesh, whose foul corruption Is his fair food: whose generation Another's ruin. O Canaan's dread curse, To live in people's sins! Nay, far more worse, To muck rank hate! But, sirra Lynceus, Seest thou that troop that now effronteth us? They are naught but eels,[524] that never will appear Till that tempestuous winds or thunder tear Their slimy beds. But prithee stay a while; 80 Look, yon comes John-a-Noke and John-a-Stile; They are nought but slow-paced, dilatory pleas, Demure demurrers, still striving to appease Hot zealous love. The language that they speak Is the pure barbarous blacksaunt[525] of the Gete; Their only skill rests in collusions, Abatements, stoppels, inhibitions. Heavy-paced jades, dull-pated jobbernouls, Quick in delays, checking with vain controls Fair Justice' course; vile necessary evils, 90 Smooth-seeming saints, yet damn'd incarnate devils. Far be it from my sharp satiric muse, Those grave and reverent[526] legists to abuse, That aid Astræa, that do further right; But these Megeras that inflame despite,