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“ If thou hast ought to speak, speak out."

Then Lancasier did cry, “ Know'it thou not me, nor yet thy self?

Who thou, and whom am I?

“ Know'lt thou not me, who (God be prais’d)

“ Have brawld, and quarreld more, “ Than all the Line of Lancastere

“ That battl'd heretofore ?

“ In Senates fam'd for many a Speech,

“ And (what some awe must give ye, “ Tho’ laid thus low beneath thy breech,)

Still of the Council Privy,

“ Still of the Dutchy Chancellor,

Durante Life I have it; “ And turn, as now thou dost on me,

" Mine A e on them that gave it."

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But now the Servants they rush'd in ;

And Duke Nic. up Icap'd he: I will not cope against such odds,

But, Guise! I'll fight with thee :

To-morrow with thee will I fight

Under the Greenwood Tree; “ No, not to-morow, but to night

" ( Quoth Guise) I'll fight with thee." VOL. IV.



And now the Sun declining low

Bestreak’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 stretch'd, to find

Who was not to be found.

Long brandith'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 fo white,
As pointing out the gloomy Glade

Wherein he meant to fight.

All in that dreadful Hour, so calm

Was Lancastere to see,
As if he meant to take the Air,

Or only take a Fee.

And so he did for to New Court

His rowling Wheels did run :
Not that he Thunnid the doubtful Strife,

But Bus'ness must be done.


Back in the Dark, by Brompton Park,

He turn'd up through the Gore; So slunk to Cambden House so high, · All in his Coach and four.

Mean while Duke Guife did fret and fume,

A Sight it was to see ;
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. shall rue

“The Cudgel of that Day.

« Mean Time on every Piffing-Post

“. Paste we this Recreant's Name, “ So that each Pisser-by shall read,

“ And piss against the fame.
Now God preserve our gracious King!

And grant, his Nobles all
May learn this Lesson from Duke Nic.

That Pride will have a Fall.

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Fragment of a SATIRE.

F meagre Gilden draws his venal Quill,

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If dreadful Dennis raves in furious Fret,
l'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 some more Sober Criticks come abroad,
If wrong, I smile; if right, I kiss the Roi.-
Pains, Reading, Study, are their juft Pretence,
And all they want is Spirit, Taite, and Senle.
Commas and Points they set exactly right;
And 'twere a Sin to rob ihem of their Mite.
Yet ne'er one Sprig of Laurel grac'd those Ribbalds,
From flashing By down to pidling Tibbalds :
Who thinks he reads, ivhen he but scans and spells,
A Word-catcher, that lives on Syllables.
Yet ev’n this Creature may some notice claim,
Wrapt round and fanctify'd with Shakespear's Name.
Pretty, in Amber to observe the Forms
Of Hairs, or Straws, or Dirt, or Grubs, or Worms:


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

Are others angry? I excuse 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 secret Standard in his Mind,
That casting Weight Pride adds to Emptiness ;
This who can gratify? For who can guess?
The Wretch whom pilfer'd Pastorals renown,
Who turns a Persian Tale for half a Crown,
Just 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, spends little, yet has nothing left:
* Johnson, who now to Sense, now Nonsense lean-

ing, Means not, but blunders round about a Meaning ; And he, whose Fustian's so fublimely bad, + It is not Poetry, but Prose run mad: Should modest Satire bid all these translate, And own that nine such Poets make a Tate; How wou'd they fume, and stamp, and roar, and

chafe ! How wou'd they swear, not Congreve's self was safe!

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

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