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And now the fun declining low
Bestreak'd with blood the fkies;
When, with his fword at faddle-bow,
Rode forth the valiant Guife.

Full gently pranc'd he o'er the lawn ;
Oft' roll'd his eyes around,

And from the stirrup ftretch'd to find
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 spy'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 fo calm
Was Lancastere to fee,

As if he meant to take the air,
Or only take a fee:

And fo he did---for to New Court

His rowling wheels did run:

Not that he fhunn'd the doubtful ftrife;

But business must be done.

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Back in the dark, by Brompton park,
He turn'd up through the Gore;
So flunk to Cambden houfe fo high,
All in his coach and four.

Mean while duke Guife did fret and fume,
A fight it was to fee,
Benumb'd beneath the evening dew
Under the green-wood tree.

Then, wet and weary, home he far'd,
Sore mutt'ring all the way,
"The day I meet him, Nic. fhall rue
"The cudgel of that day.

"Mean time on every piffing-poft
"Pafte we this recreant's name,
"So that each piffer-by fhall read
"And piss against the same."

Now God preferve our gracious king,
And grant, his nobles all

May learn this leffon from duke Nic.
That pride will have a fall.

* Fragment

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F meagre Gildon draws his venal quill, I wish the man a dinner, and fit ftill: If dreadful Dennis raves in furious fret, I'll anfwer 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 fome more fober criticks come

broad,

If wrong, I fmile; if right, I kifs the rod. Pains, reading, ftudy, are their just pretence; And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense. Commas and points they fet exactly right; And 'twere a fin to rob them of their mite:, Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel grac'd those ribalds,

From flashing Bentley down to pidling Tibalds,

Who thinks he reads, when he but scans and Spells;

A word-catcher, that lives on fyllables. Yet ev❜n this creature may fome notice claim, Wrapt round and fanctify'd with ShakeSpear's name.

Pretty in amber to obferve the forms Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms!

The

The thing, we know, is neither rich nor rare; And wonder how the devil it got there.

Are others angry? I excufe them too: Well may they rage; I give them but theirdue. Each man's true merit 'tis not hard to find; But each man's fecret ftandard in his mind, That cafting-weight pride adds to emptinefs, This who can gratify? for who can guess? The wretch whom pilfer'd paftorals re

nown,

Who turns a Perfian tale for half a crown, Juft writes to make his barrennefs appear, And ftrains from hard-bound brains fix lines a year;

In fense still wanting, tho' he lives on theft, Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left:

+ Johnson, who now to fenfe, now nonsense leaning.

Means not, but blunders round about a meaning:

And he, whofe fuftian's fo fublimely bad, It is not poetry, but profe run mad: Should modeft fatire bid all thefe tranflate, And own that nine fuch poets make a Tate';

Philips.

+ Author of the Victim, and

Cobler of Prefton.

Verfe of Dr. Ev.

How

How wou'd they fume, and ftamp, and roar, and chafe!

How wou'd they fwear not Congreve's felf was fafe!

Peace to all fuch! but were there one whofe fires

Apollo kindled, and fair fame infpires; Bleft with each talent and each art to please, And born to write, converse, and live with ease:

Should fuch 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 rife; Damn with faint praife, affent with civil leer, And without fneering teach the rest to sneer; Willing to wound, and yet afraid to ftrike, Juft hint a fault, and hesitate diflike;

Alike referv'd to blame, or to commend, A tim'rous foe, and a fufpicious friend; Dreading ev'n fools, by flatterers befieg'd, And fo 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 fenate laws, And fits attentive to his own applaufe;

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