.

I like extreamly his rejecting the Old Cant of _Forty One_, and giving
the _great Rebellion_ its true Name _Forty Two_: But, if I had been he,
I would not have named it at all. For there are a great many Men in
_England_, who, tho' they were not concern'd in it themselves, yet they
do not love to hear of it, for the sake of those that were; and it
certainly was an Error in delicacy to touch upon so tender a Part, no
Man of Honour caring to have his Father and Grandfather call'd Rogue and
Rebel to his Face, especially if such Grandfather or Father had no other
Fault in the World but his Rebellion; which after so many Acts of
Oblivion, and a Revolution besides, can not be a Crime of that Nature,
as to last to the 3d and 4th Generation. He is much to be commended
however for his Impartiality, and pleading Guilty to the Charge of the
_Whigs_, that the _Licentiousness_ which enter'd with the
_Rystauration_, infected our Religion and Morals. How it corrupted our
Language I can't imagine, when the greatest Master of it Arch-Bishop
_Tillotson_, flourish'd all that Time; but I find he is more conversant
in the Court Poetry and the Plays, than the other elegant Writings of
those Times: Be it as it will, he would lay an Infinite Obligation upon
us, if he would recommend us to any Author in the Reign of King
_Charles_ the Martyr, which he distinguishes as the Golden Age of
Politeness; who wrote with the Purity of _Dryden_, _Otway_, and
_Etheridge_, and with less Affectation, which in Comick Writings is
unavoidable, and in the best never us'd but to be expos'd. Yet the
_Poets_ he affirms have _contributed very much to the spoiling the
Tongue_: And who would he have to restore it? Himself, and his Brethren.
Himself a Poet of Renown, and who, if he would once speak his Mind,
I make no question is Prouder of his _Elegy upon Patridge_, and his
Sonnet on Miss _Biddy Floyd_, than of all His Prose Compositions
together, or even that elegant Poem, call'd _The Humble Petition of
+Frances Harris+_, which is the Pink of Simplicity.

_Therefore all the Money I have, which God knows is a
very small Stock,_
_I keep in a Pocket ty'd about my middle, next my Smock:_
_So when I went to put my Purse, as God would have it,
my Smock was unript,_
_And instead of putting it into my Pocket, down it slipt._
_Then the Bell rung, and I went down to put my Lady to Bed,_
_And God knows, I thought my Money was as safe as my Maidenh