That broach deep rancour, that study still To ruin right, that they their paunch may fill With Irus' blood--these furies I do mean, These hedgehogs, that disturb Astrea's scene. A man, a man! Peace, Cynic, yon's a man; 100 Behold yon sprightly dread Mavortian; With him I stop thy currish barking chops.-- What, mean'st thou him that in his swaggering slops Wallows unbracèd, all along the street; He that salutes each gallant he doth meet With "Farewell, sweet captain, kind heart, adieu;" He that last night, tumbling thou didst view From out the great man's head,[527] and thinking still He had been sentinel of warlike Brill,[528] Cries out, "Que va la? zounds, que?" and out doth draw 110 His transform'd poniard, to a syringe straw, And stabs the drawer? What, that ringo-root![529] Mean'st thou that wasted leg, puff bumbast boot; What, he that's drawn and quarterèd with lace; That Wesphalian gammon clove-stuck[530] face? Why, he is nought but huge blaspheming oaths, Swart snout, big looks, misshapen Switzers'[531] clothes; Weak meagre lust hath now consumèd quite, And wasted clean away his martial sprite; Enfeebling riot, all vices' confluence, 120 Hath eaten out that sacred influence Which made him man. That divine part is soak'd away in sin, In sensual lust, and midnight bezelling,[532] Rank inundation of luxuriousness[533] Have tainted him with such gross beastliness, That now the seat of that celestial essence Is all possess'd with Naples' pestilence.[534] Fat peace, and dissolute impiety, Have lullèd him in such security, 130 That now, let whirlwinds and confusion tear The centre of our state; let giants' rear Hill upon hill; let western termagant Shake heaven's vault: he, with his occupant,[535] Are cling'd so close, like dew-worms in the morn, That he'll not stir till out his guts are torn With eating filth. Tubrio, snort on, snort on, Till thou art waked with sad confusion. Now rail no more at my sharp cynic sound, Thou brutish world, that in all vileness drown'd 140 Hast lost thy soul: for nought but shades I see-- Resemblances of men inhabit thee. Yon tissue slop, yon holy-crossèd pane,[536] Is but a water-spaniel that will fawn, And kiss the water, whilst it pleasures him; But being once arrivèd at the brim, He shakes it off. Yon in the cap'ring cloak, a mimic ape, That only strives to seem another's shape. Yon's Æsop's ass; yon sad civility 150 Is but an ox that with base drudgery Ears up the land, whilst some gilt ass doth chaw The golden wheat, he well apaid with straw. Yon's but a muckhill overspread with snow, Which with that veil doth even as fairly show As the green meads, whose native outward fair[537] Breathes sweet perfumes into the neighbour air.