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(Book vi. § 73, p. 405; § 33, p. 375; and § 35, p. 376.)

What art, vocation, trade or mystery, Can match with your fine Parasite?—The Painter? He! a mere dauber: a vile drudge the Farmer: Their business is to labour, ours to laugh, To jeer, to quibble, faith, Sirs! and to drink, Aye, and to drink lustily. Is not this rare? 'Tis life, my life at least: the first of pleasures Were to be rich myself; but next to this I hold it best to be a Parasite, And feed upon the rich. Now mark me right! Set down my virtues one by one: Imprimis. Good-will to all men—would they were all rich, So might I gull them all: malice to none; I envy no man's fortune, all I wish Is but to share it: would you have a friend, A gallant steady friend? I am your man: No striker I, no swaggerer, no defamer, But one to bear all these and still forbear: If you insult, I laugh, unruffled, merry, Invincibly good-humour'd still I laugh: A stout good soldier I, valorous to a fault, When once my stomach's up and supper served: You know my humour, not one spark of pride, Such and the same for ever to my friends: If cudgell'd, molten iron to the hammer Is not so malleable; but if I cudgel, Bold as the thunder: is one to be blinded? I am the lightning's flash: to be puff'd up? I am the wind to blow him to the bursting: Choked, strangled? I can do 't and save a halter: Would you break down his doors? behold an earthquake: Open and enter them? a battering-ram: Will you sit down to supper? I'm your guest, Your very Fly to enter without bidding: Would you move off? you'll move a well as soon: I'm for all work, and though the job were stabbing, Betraying, false-accusing, only say,