Ong was the great Figg, by the prize-fighting swains, Sole monarch acknowledg'd of Mary-bone plains: To the towns, far and near, did his valour extend, And swam down the river from Thame to Gravefend; Where liv'd Mr. Sutton, pipemaker by trade,

Who hearing that Figg was thought such a stout blade, Refolv'd to put in for a share of his fame,

And so sent to challenge the champion of Thame.

With alternate advantage two trials had past,

When they fought out the rubbers on Wednesday laft. To fee fuch a conteft the house was so full,

There hardly was room left to thrust in your fkull. With a prelude of cudgels we firft were faluted, And two or three fhoulders moft handfomely fluted ;

- 'Till

'Till weary at last with inferior disasters,

All the company cry'd, Come, the masters, the mafters.
III.

Whereupon the bold Sutton firft mounted the stage,
Made his honours as ufual, and yearn'd to engage;
Then Figg, with a vifage fo fierce, yet fedate,
Came and enter'd the lifts, with his fresh-fhaven pate;
Their arms were encircled with armigers too,
With a red ribbon Sutton's, and Figg's with a blue.
Thus adorn'd the two heroes, 'twixt fhoulder, and elbow,
Shook hands, and went to 't, and the word it was Bilboe.
IV.

Sure fuch a concern in the eyes of fpectators,
Was never yet feen in our amphi-theatres,

Our commons and peers from their feveral places,
To half an inch distance all pointed their faces;
While the rays of old Phoebus that shot thro' the fky-light,
Seem'd to make on the stage a new kind of twilight;
And the Gods, without doubt, if one could but have feen 'em,
Were peeping there through to do justice between 'em.

V.

Figg ftruck the first stroke, and with such a vast fury,
That he broke his huge weapon in twain, I affure you;
And if his brave rival this blow had not warded,
His head from his fhoulders had quite been difcarded.

Figg arm'd him again, and they took t' other tilt,
And then Sutton's blade ran away from its hilt;
The weapons were frighted, but as for the men,
In truth they ne'er minded, but at it again.
VI.

Such aforce in their blows, you'd have thought it a wonder
Every ftroke they receiv'd did not cleave 'em asunder.
Yet fo great was their courage, fo equal their skill,
That they both feem'd as fafe as a thief in a mill;
While in doubtful attention dame Victory stood,
And which fide to take could not tell for her blood,
But remain'd like the ass 'twixt the bundles of hay,
Without ever stirring an inch either way.

VII.

'Till Jove to the Gods fignified his intention

In a fpeech that he made 'em too tedious to mention;
But the upshot on't was, that at that very bout,
From a wound in Figg's fide the hot blood spouted out;
Her ladyship then feem'd to think the cafe plain,
But Figg stepping forth with a fullen disdain,
Shew'd the gash, and appeal'd to the company round,
If his own broken sword had not given him the wound.

VIII.

That bruises, and wounds a man's spirit should touch, With danger fo little, with honour fo much!

Well,

Well, they both took a dram, and return'd to the battle,
And with a fresh fury they made the fwords rattle;
While Sutton's right arm was observed to bleed,
By a touch from his rival, so Jove had decreed;
Juft enough for to fhew that his blood was not icor,
But made up, like Figg's, of the common red-liquor.
IX.

Again they both rush'd with as equal a fire on,
'Till the company cry'd, Hold, enough of cold iron,
To the quarter-staff now, lads. So first having dram'd it,
They took to their wood, and i' faith never fham'd it.
The first bout they had was so fair, and fo handsome,
That to make a fair bargain, was worth a king's ranfom;
And Sutton fuch bangs on his neighbour imparted,
Would have made any fibres but Figg's to have fmarted.
X.

Then after that bout they went on to another

But the matter muft end on fome fashion, or other;
So Jove told the Gods he had made a decree,
That Figg fhould hit Sutton a stroke on the knee.
Though Sutton difabled as foon as he hit him
Would still have fought on, but Jove would not permit
'Twas his fate, not his fault, that constrain'd him to yield,
And thus the great Figg became lord of the field.

[him;

A Letter

A Letter from Cambridge to a young Gentleman

THC

at Eton School.

By Dr. LITTLETON.

HOUGH plagu'd with algebraic lectures,
And aftronomical conjectures,

Wean'd from the fweets of poetry
To scraps of dry philosophy,

You fee, dear Sir, I've found a time
T'express my thoughts to you in rhime.
For why, my friend, should distant parts,
Or times, disjoin united hearts,
Since, though by intervening space
Depriv'd of speaking face to face,
By faithful emissary letter

We may converfe as well, or better?
And not to stretch a narrow fancy,
To fhew what pretty things I can say,

(As fome will strain at fimile,

First work it fine, and then apply;

Tag Butler's rhymes to Prior's thoughts,

And choose to mimic all their faults,

By