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"If thou haft ought to speak, fpeak out." Then Lancaster did cry,

"Know'st thou not me, nor yet thy felf?

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"Know'st thou not me, who (God be prais'd)
"Have brawl'd, and quarrel'd more,
"Than all the Line of Lancastere
"That battl'd heretofore?

"In Senates fam'd for many a Speech,
"And (what fome awe must give ye,
"Tho' laid thus low beneath thy breech,)
Still of the Council Privy.

66

"Still of the Dutchy Chancellor,

"Durante Life I have it;

"And turn, as now thou doft on me,
"Mine A -e on them that gave it."

But now the Servants they rush'd in ;
And Duke Nic. up leap'd he:

I will not cope against such odds,

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But, Guife! I'll fight with thee:

To-morrow with thee will I fight
Under the Greenwood Tree;
"No, not to-morow, but to night
"(Quoth Guife) I'll fight with thee."

VOL. IV.

I

And

And now the Sun declining low

Beftreak'd with Blood the Skies; When, with his Sword at Saddle Bow, Rode forth the valiant Guise;

Full gently praunch'd he o'er the Lawn;
Oft' roll'd his Eyes around,

And from the Stirrup ftretch'd, to find

Who was not to be found.

Long brandifh'd he the Blade in Air,
Long look'd the Field all o'er:

At length he fpy'd the Merry-men brown,
And eke the Coach and four.

From out the Boot bold Nicholas
Did wave his Wand so white,
As pointing out the gloomy Glade
Wherein he meant to fight.

All in that dreadful Hour, fo calm
Was Lancaflere to see,

As if he meant to take the Air,
Or only take a Fee.

And fo he did for to New Court:

His rowling Wheels did run:

Not that he fhunn'd the doubtful Strife,

But Bus'nefs must be done.

Back

Back in the Dark, by Brompton Park,
He turn'd up through the Gore;
So flunk to Cambden House fo high,
All in his Coach and four.

Mean while Duke Guise did fret and fume,
A Sight it was to fee;
Benumm❜d beneath the Evening Dew,
Under the Greenwood Tree.

Then, wet and weary, home he far'd,
Sore mutt'ring all the way,

"The Day I meet him, Nic. fhall rue
"The Cudgel of that Day.

"Mean Time on every Piffing-Poft
"Pafte we this Recreant's Name,
"So that each Piffer-by fhall read,
"And piss against the same.

Now God preserve our gracious King!
And grant, his Nobles all

May learn this Leffon from Duke Nic.
That Pride will have a Fall.

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meagre Gildon draws his venal Quill,

I wish the Man a Dinner, and fit ftill. If dreadful Dennis raves in furious Fret, I'll answer Dennis when I am in Debt.. 'Tis Hunger, and not Malice, makes them print, And who'll wage War with Bedlam or the Mint? SHOULD fome more fober Criticks come abroad, If wrong, I fmile; if right, I kifa the Rod.. Pains, Reading, Study, are their juft Pretence, And all they want is Spirit, Tafte, and Sense. Commas and Points they fet exactly right; And 'twere a Sin to rob them of their Mite. Yet ne'er one Sprig of Laurel grac'd thofe Ribbalds, From flashing By down to pidling Tibbalds: Who thinks he reads, when he but feans and Spells, A Word-catcher, that lives on Syllables.

Yet ev❜n this Creature may fome notice claim, Wrapt round and fanctify'd with Shakespear's Name. Pretty, in Amber to obferve the Forms

Of Hairs, or Straws, or Dirt, or Grubs, or Worms:

The

The Thing, we know, is neither rich nor rare,
But wonder how the Devil it got there.

ARE others angry? I excufe them too,

Well may they rage; I give them but their Due.
Each Man's true Merit 'tis not hard to find;
But each Man's fecret Standard in his Mind,
That cafting Weight Pride adds to Emptiness;
This who can gratify? For who can guess?
The Wretch whom pilfer'd Paftorals renown,
Who turns a Perfian Tale for half a Crown,
Juft writes to make his Barrenness appear,
And strains from hardbound Brains, fix Lines a Year ; '
In Sense still wanting, tho' he lives on Theft,

Steals much, fpends little, yet has nothing left:

*

Johnson, who now to Senfe, now Nonfenfe lean

ing,

Means not, but blunders round about a Meaning;
And he, whofe Fuftian's fo fublimely bad,

It is not Poetry, but Profe run mad:
Should modeft Satire bid all these translate,

And own that nine fuch Poets make a Tate;

How wou'd they fume, and flamp, and roar, and

chafe!

How wou'd they fwear, not Congreve's felf was fafe!

*Author of the Victim, and Cobler of Preston. + Verfe of Dr. Ev.

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