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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."
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,
Who was not to be found.
Long brandith'd he the Blade in Air,
Long look'd the Field all o'er :
And eke the Coach and four.
From out the Boot bold Nicholas
Did wave his Wand fo white,
Wherein he meant to fight.
All in that dreadful Hour, so calm
Was Lancastere to see,
Or only take a Fee.
And so he did for to New Court
His rowling Wheels did run :
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 ;
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.
And grant, his Nobles all
That Pride will have a Fall.
Fragment of a SATIRE.
F meagre Gilden draws his venal Quill,
If dreadful Dennis raves in furious Fret,
SHOULD some more Sober Criticks come abroad,
The Thing, we know, is neither rich nor rare,
Are others angry? I excuse them too,
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.