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* A brace of warriors, not in buff, But ruitling in their filks and tissues.

The first came cap-a-pee from France, Her conquering destiny fulfilling, Whom meaner beauties eye aikance, And vainly ape her art of killing.

The other Amazon kind heaven Had arm’d with spirit, wit, and satire: But Cobham had the polish given, And tipp'd her arrows with good-nature.

To celebrate her eyes, her airCoarse panegyrics would but teaze her. Melissa is her Nom de Guerre. Alas, who would not wish to please her!

* The reader is already apprised who these Ladies were ; the two descriptions are prettily contratted ; and nothing can be more happily turned than the compliment to Lady Cobham in the eighth ftanza. M.

With bonnet blue and capuchinc,
And aprons long they hid their armour,
And veild their weapons bright and keen,
In pity to the country farmer.

Fame, in the shape of * Mr. P-t,
(By this time all the parish know it)
Had told, that thereabouts there lurk'd
A wicked Imp they call a Poet:

Who prowld the country far and near, Bewitch'd the children of the peasants, Dried up the cows, and lam'd the deer, And fuck’d the eggs, and kill'd the pheasants,

My Lady heard their joint petition,
Swore by her coronet and ermine,
She'd illue out her high commission
To rid the manor of such vermin.

* I have been told that this Gentleman, a neighbour and acquaintance of Mr. Gray's in the country, was much difpleafed at the liberty here taken with his name ; yet, furely, without any great reason. M.

The The Heroines undertook the talk, Thro’lanes unknown, o'er ftiles they ventur'u, Rap'd at the door, nor stay'd to as, But bounce into the parlour enter'd.

The trembling family they daunt, They firt, they fing, they laugh, they tattle, Rummage his Mother, pinch his Aunt, And up ítairs in a whirlwind rattle.

Fach hole and cupboard they explore,
Each creek and cranny of his chamber;;
Run hurry-kurty round the fioor,
And o'er the bed and tester clamber;

Into the drawers and china pry,
Papers and books, a huge imbroglio!.
Under a tca-cup he might lie,
Or creas’d, like dogs-ears, in a folio.

On the first marching of the troops, The Muses, hopeless of his pardon, Convey'd him underneath their hoops To a small closet in the garden.

So Rumour says : (who will, believe.) But that they left the door a-jar; Where, safe and laughing in his sleeve, He heard the distant din of war.

Short was his joy. He little knew The power of Magic was no fable; Out of the window, whisk, they flewy, But left a spell upon the table.

The words too eager to unriddle, The Poet felt a strange disorder : Transparent bird-lime form’d the middle; And chains invisible the border..

So cunning was the Apparatus,
The powerful pot-hooks did fo move him,
That, will he, nill he, to the Great-house
He went, as if the Devil drove him.

Yet on his way (no sign of grace,
For folks in fear are apt to pray)
To Phæbus he preferr’d his case,
And begg'd his aid that dreadful day.

The Godhead would have back'd his quarrel; But with a blush, on recollection, Own'd, that his quiver and his laurel 'Gainst four such eyes were no protection.

The court was sat, the culprit there,
Forth from their gloomy mansions creeping
The Lady Janes and Joans repair,
And from the gallery stand peeping &

Such

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