Truth in Fiction Or, Morality in Masquerade. A Collection of Two hundred twenty five Select Fables of Aesop, and other Authors. Done into English Verse. By Edmund Arwaker |
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| XXIX. | FABLE XXIX. The Coffee-House:
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 | Truth in Fiction |  |
234
FABLE XXIX. The Coffee-House:
Or, A Man's Credit, is his Cash.
At
Will's, where Troops of flutt'ring, gaudy Beaus
Parade, to pick up scraps of Wit and News;
When a whole Swarm in the full House was hiv'd,
On the Report of an Express arriv'd:
While there they, big with Expectation, sate,
The first that enter'd was an old Soldate:
His Boots, with Dirt not dry, were spatter'd o'er;
His Coat a Brushing 'scap'd some Weeks before;
His Hat ill cock'd, his Cravat as ill ty'd;
His Wig and Face were a right Piss-burn dy'd;
His Rusty-hilted Sword, that seem'd a Load,
Was hung on mal-adroit, not a-la-mode:
In fine, in this odd Dress, he did appear
Some very mean or broken Officer.
The Sparks his Equipage divertive thought;
Ask'd, whence he came, and what strange News he brought.
He told them, He from Flanders newly came,
And wonder'd how he had out-posted Fame;
Since they seem'd Strangers to the glorious Work
Perform'd by Marlborough and Auverquerke:
How they had giv'n Old Lewis a fatal Blow,
And his best Troops a total Overthrow:
And Flanders, which he had by Craft obtain'd,
Their Courage, in as short a Time, regain'd.
Parade, to pick up scraps of Wit and News;
When a whole Swarm in the full House was hiv'd,
On the Report of an Express arriv'd:
While there they, big with Expectation, sate,
The first that enter'd was an old Soldate:
His Boots, with Dirt not dry, were spatter'd o'er;
His Coat a Brushing 'scap'd some Weeks before;
His Hat ill cock'd, his Cravat as ill ty'd;
His Wig and Face were a right Piss-burn dy'd;
His Rusty-hilted Sword, that seem'd a Load,
Was hung on mal-adroit, not a-la-mode:
In fine, in this odd Dress, he did appear
Some very mean or broken Officer.
The Sparks his Equipage divertive thought;
Ask'd, whence he came, and what strange News he brought.
He told them, He from Flanders newly came,
And wonder'd how he had out-posted Fame;
Since they seem'd Strangers to the glorious Work
Perform'd by Marlborough and Auverquerke:
How they had giv'n Old Lewis a fatal Blow,
And his best Troops a total Overthrow:
235
Their Courage, in as short a Time, regain'd.
With Patience they the Story let him tell,
But not a Man believ'd a Syllable:
One, with an Oath, says, I'll not heed a Word
He speaks; he can't tell how to wear his Sword.
Another (of his Friend's Persuasion) cries,
'Tis such a shabby Curr, I'm sure he Lyes.
Fogh! says a third, If ever he was there,
He smells as if he ran away for Fear.
Hang him, concludes a fourth, 'Tis all a Jest,
He has not Din'd, and wou'd be some one's Guest.
Thus they, by a wrong Estimate befool'd,
The Story and the Author ridicul'd:
Yet with such Caution manag'd all their Chat,
That he shou'd hear no Noise, nor smell a Rat.
Amidst their Sport, comes in a little Prig,
Powder'd to th' Eyes, and almost drown'd in Wig:
A Golden Snush-Box, with right Vigo fill'd,
He, in due Form, between his Fingers held;
Whence when he had three graceful Pinches took,
With screw'd Grimace, thus the starch'd Coxcomb spoke:
Great News at Court, the French are soundly beat,
Marlb'rough has giv'n the Dogs a clear Defeat:
Flanders is now possess'd by the Allies,
And, for its Sov'reign, Charles do's Recognize.
This said, without more Scruple, they believe,
And all for Gospel from his Mouth receive:
Wealth more persuades, than Probability;
And One so Rigg'd, they fancy'd cou'd not Lye.
But not a Man believ'd a Syllable:
One, with an Oath, says, I'll not heed a Word
He speaks; he can't tell how to wear his Sword.
Another (of his Friend's Persuasion) cries,
'Tis such a shabby Curr, I'm sure he Lyes.
Fogh! says a third, If ever he was there,
He smells as if he ran away for Fear.
Hang him, concludes a fourth, 'Tis all a Jest,
He has not Din'd, and wou'd be some one's Guest.
Thus they, by a wrong Estimate befool'd,
The Story and the Author ridicul'd:
Yet with such Caution manag'd all their Chat,
That he shou'd hear no Noise, nor smell a Rat.
Amidst their Sport, comes in a little Prig,
Powder'd to th' Eyes, and almost drown'd in Wig:
A Golden Snush-Box, with right Vigo fill'd,
He, in due Form, between his Fingers held;
Whence when he had three graceful Pinches took,
With screw'd Grimace, thus the starch'd Coxcomb spoke:
Great News at Court, the French are soundly beat,
Marlb'rough has giv'n the Dogs a clear Defeat:
Flanders is now possess'd by the Allies,
And, for its Sov'reign, Charles do's Recognize.
This said, without more Scruple, they believe,
And all for Gospel from his Mouth receive:
Wealth more persuades, than Probability;
And One so Rigg'd, they fancy'd cou'd not Lye.
The MORAL.
‘Thus, when a Poor-Man, in a Thread-bare Coat,‘Speaks Truth, his Credit is not worth a Groat;
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‘And all his Words for Oracles receiv'd.
‘The thoughtless Mob, whom pompous Outsides sway,
‘To Fools well Dress'd a mighty Def'rence pay;
‘To the Credentials of their Habit trust,
‘But think none meanly Clad are True or Just.
‘Poor Men, they fancy, do the Gods contemn,
‘And are as unregarded pass'd by them;
‘But judge, the Rich their Deities revere,
‘And still to them must equally be dear:
‘Thus they believe too little, or too much,
‘Where only Wealth for Honesty must vouch.
| Truth in Fiction | |