Furet. I happen’d not to be there; for you must know, there has been such a difference between those gentlemen and me, concerning a dictionary I have publish’d, that it came at last to a contentious law-suit; but what was laid on either side, only made the world laugh at both, and is not half so diverting as the epigram you made upon an, old lady that went to law with you: I think I still remember it.——
Thou nauseous everlasting sow,
With phiz of bear, and shape of cow,
With eyes that in their sockets twinkle,
And forehead plow’d with many a wrinkle.
With nose that runs like common-shore,
And breath that murders at twelvescore:
What! thou’rt resolv’d to give me war,
And trounce me at the noisy bar,
Though it reduces thee to eat,
Thy smock for want of cleanlier meat:
Agreed, old beldam! keep thy word,
’Twill soon reduce thee to eat a t——d.
Scar. May that be the fate of Taleman, Charpentier, and the rest of those reformers of the alphabet, and in a more especial manner of that thieving flattering rogue [54] Despaux, who has made a faithless poltron, a Mars, and a super-annuated lascivious adultress, a saint. So much for that —— But give me some little account now of your clergy, I mean the great plump rogues, the hogs with mitres on their heads, and crosiers on their shoulders, those janizaries of antichrist.
Furet. I know your meaning—— Never was nickname given with more justice to any society of men. In Normandy, and those parts they call all the minor clergy, as the fat monks, canons, abbots, &c. who are not mitred, Jesus Christ’s porkers; which distinction is not very fantastical, if we allow the other expression. But no more of those gentlemen, ’tis dangerous.
Scar. Prithee, dear abbot, be not so mealy-mouth’d; when I was in the world, the greatest pleasure I had, was in attacking those gentleman’s vices, and exposing them to the hereticks, that still-born generation of vipers, as they call them, and therefore let us be free now; ’tis the only enjoyment we can have. Pray what says your Monthly Mercury of those gentleman, whom the earth is more oblig’d to for bodies, than heaven for souls?
Furet. Never fuller of who made such a man a cuckold, and who pox’d such a woman, as now; neither were ever the women half so impudent; no not in the reigns of Caligula and Nero. Never was debauchery so much in fashion; nor never were the whores so often cover’d with purple.
Scar. Is there not in your herd, such a thing as a tame gentle weather? or what Virgil calls Dux Gregis? you understand me.
Furet. A weather! oh, fy, fy! not such a creature among them, I can assure you. The most christian king would not suffer such an impertinent scandalous animal, so much as at shew his head in his seraglio. ’Tis as easy to find there a pretty woman chaste, or hair in the palm of your hand, as an emasculated beast among the mitred hogs: for the Dux Gregis, Virgil speaks of, we have one at the head of our prelates, who has all the qualities requisite for so great an honour, tho’ he has neither beard nor horns: and should I name him, you’d be of my opinion.
Scar. Wou’d I recollect my memory, and their virtues, I cou’d guess within two or three; but pray save me that labour.
Furet. Do you not remember a famous song you made in praise of a sick wanton goat. Creque fait & defend l’archeveque de Roüen.