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Up didst thou look, O woful duke !
Thy mouth yet durst not ope, Certes for fear of finding there
A t-d, instead of trope. “ Lie there, thou caitiff vile !” quoth Guise;
“ No shift is here to save thee: “ The casement it is shut likewise ;
“ Beneath my feet I have thee. “ If thou hast ought to speak, speak out.”
Then Lancastere did cry, “ Know'st thou not me, nor yet thyself?
“ Who thou, and who am I?
“ Know'st thou not me, who (God be prais'd!)
“ Have brawld and quarrell’d more, « Than all the line of Lancastere,
“ That battled 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 duchy chancellor;
“ Durante life, I have it ; “ And turn, as now thou dost on me,
“ Mine a-se 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,
“ But, Guise ! I'll fight with thee:
“ No, not to morrow, but to night,”
Quoth Guise, “ I'll fight with thee :" 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 pranc'd he o'er the lawn;
Oft rollid his eyes around,
Who was not to be found.
Long brandish'd he the blade in air,
Long look'd the field all o'er : At length he spied 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 so calm
Was Lancastere to see,
Or only take a fee:
.And so he did for to New Court
His rolling 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 Guise 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 cudgel of that day.
“ Paste we this recreant's name,
“And piss against the same.”
And grant his nobles all
That “ pride will have a fall.”
FRAGMENT OF A SATIRE *.
IF meagre Gildon draws his venal quill,
Should some more sober criticks come abroad,
• Inserted since, with alterations, in Mr. Pope's Epistle to
Commas and points they set exactly right;
Are others angry? I excuse them too :
How would they fume, and stamp, and roar, and
chafe ! How would they swear not Congreve's self was safe!
Peace to all such! but were there one whose fires Apollo kindled, and fair fame inspires : Blest with each talent and each art to please, And born to write, converse, and live with ease : Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne ; View him with scornful, yet with fearful eyes, And hate for arts that caus'd himself to rise; Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, And without sneering teach the rest to sneer: Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike; Alike reserv'd to blame, or to commend, A tim'rous foe, and a suspicious friend: Dreading e'en fools, by Aatterers besieg’d, And so obliging, that he ne'er oblig'd; Who, if two wits on rival themes contest, Approves of each, but likes the worst the best; Like Cato, gives his little senate laws, And sits attentive to his own applause ; While wits and templars ev'ry sentence raise, And wonder with a foolish face of praiseWhat pity, Heaven ! if such a man there be ; Who would not weep, if Addison were he !