tower had stood. 
  He adds, If of court-life you knew the good,
  You would leave loneness.  I said, Not alone
  My loneness is, but Spartan’s fashion,
  To teach by painting drunkards, doth not last
  Now; Aretine’s pictures have made few chaste;
  No more can princes’ courts, though there be few
  Better pictures of vice, teach me virtue. 
  He, like to a high-stretch’d lute-string, squeakt, O, Sir! 
  ’Tis sweet to talk of kings!  At Westminster,
  Said I, the man that keeps the Abbey-tombs,
  And for his price doth, with who ever comes,
  Of all our Harrys and our Edwards talk,
  From king to king, and all their kin can walk: 
  Your ears shall hear naught but kings; your eyes meet
  Kings only; the way to it is King’s street. 
  He smack’d, and cry’d, He’s base, mechanic coarse;
  So’re all our Englishmen in their discourse. 
  Are not your Frenchmen neat?  Mine, eyes you see,
  I have but one, Sir; look, he follows me. 
  Certes, they’re neatly cloth’d.  I of this mind am,
  Your only wearing is your grogaram. 
  Not so, Sir; I have more.  Under this pitch
  He would not fly.  I chaf’d him; but as itch
  Scratch’d into smart, and as blunt iron ground
  Into an edge, hurts worse; so I (fool!) found
  Crossing hurt me.  To fit my sullenness,
  He to another key his style doth dress,
  And asks, What news?  I tell him of new plays: 
  He takes my hand, and, as a still which stays
  A semibrief ’twixt each drop, he niggardly
  As loth to enrich me, so tells many a lie,
  More than ten Hollensheads, or Halls, or Stows,
  Of trivial household trash he knows.  He knows
  When the queen frown’d or smil’d; and he knows what
  A subtile statesman may gather of that: 
  He knows who loves whom, and who by poison
  Hastes to an office’s reversion;
  He knows who hath sold his land, and now doth beg
  A license old iron, boots, shoes, and egg-
  Shells to transport.  Shortly boys shall not play
  At span-counter, or blow-point, but shall play
  Toll to some courtier; and, wiser than us all,
  He knows what lady is not painted.  Thus
  He with home-meats cloys me.  I belch, spue, spit,
  Look pale and sickly, like a patient, yet
  He thrusts on more; and as he had undertook
  To say Gallo-Belgicus without book,
  Speaks of all states and deeds that have been since
  The Spaniards came to th’ loss of Amyens. 
  Like a big wife, at sight of loathed meat,
  Ready to travail, so I sigh and sweat
  To hear this makaron[165] talk in vain; for yet,
  Either my humour or his own to fit,
  He, like a privileg’d spy, whom nothing can
  Discredit, libels now ’gainst each great man: 
  He names a price for every office paid: 
  He saith, Our wars thrive ill, because delay’d;
  That offices are entail’d, and that there are
  Perpetuities of them lasting as far