Is only who's a Knave of the first Rate. _Tunbridge-WELLS_: A SATIRE. At Five this Morn, when _Phoebus_ rais'd his Head From _Thetis_ Lap, I rais'd my self from Bed; And mounting Steed, I trotted to the Waters, } The Rendezvous of Fools, Buffoons, and Praters, } Cuckolds, Whores, Citizens, their Wives and Daughters. } My squeamish Stomach I with Wine had brib'd, To undertake the Dose that was prescrib'd; But turning Head, a sudden cursed Crew, } That innocent Provision overthrew, } And without drinking, made me purge and spew; } From Coach and Six, a Thing unwieldy roll'd, Whom Lumber-Cart more decently would hold, As wise as Calf it look'd, as big as Bully, But handled, prov'd a meer Sir _Nich'las Cully_: A bawling Fop, a _Nat'ral Nokes_, and yet He dar'd to censure, to be thought a Wit. To make him more ridiculous in Spite, Nature contriv'd the Fool should be a Knight. How wise is Nature when she does dispense A large Estate to cover Want of Sense. The Man's a Fool, 'tis true, but that's no Matter, } For he's a mighty Wit with those that flatter, } But a poor Blockhead is a wretched Creature. } _Grant the unlucky Stars, this o'ergrown Boy To purchase some aspiring pretty Toy, That may his Want of Sense and Wit supply, As Buxom Crab-fish doth his Lechery._ Tho' he alone was dismal Sight enough, } His Train contributed to set him off; } All of his Shape, all of the self-same Stuff: } No Spleen or Malice could on them be thrown, } Nature had done the Bus'ness of Lampoon, } And in their Looks their Characters were shewn. } Endeavouring this irksome Sight to baulk, } And a more irksom Noise, their silly Talk; } I silently slunk down to'th Lower Walk. } But often when one would _Charybdis_ shun, Down upon _Scylla_ 'tis our Fate to run: For there it was my cursed Luck to find As great a Fop, tho' of another kind; A tall, stiff Fool, that walk'd in _Spanish_ Guise, } The Buckram Poppet never stirrd his Eyes, } But grave as Owl he look'd, as Woodcock wise. } He scorns the empty Talk of this made Age, And speaks all Proverb, Sentence, and Adage: Can with as much Solemnity buy Eggs, As a Cabal can talk of their Intrigues: Master of Ceremonies, yet can't dispense With the Formality of Talking Sense. From whence unto the Upper Walk I came, Where a new Scene of Foppery began; A Tribe of Curates, Priests, Canonical Elves, Fit Company for none besides themselves, Were got together; each his Distemper told, Scurvy, Stone, Strangury; some were so bold, To charge the Spleen to be their Misery, And on that wise Disease lay Infamy: But none had Modesty enough t'explain } His Want of Learning, Honesty, or Brain, }