All in a trice he rufh'd on Guife, He tweak'd his nofe, trod on his toes, But mark, how 'midst of victory And fo down fell duke Nic. Alas, oh Nic.! oh Nic. alas! For on thee did he clap his chair, Up didft thou look, oh woeful duke!: Thy mouth yet durft not ope, Certes for fear of finding there A t---d, instead of trope. "Lie there, thou caitiff vile! quoth Guife; "Beneath my feet I have thee, " If "If thou haft aught to speak, speak out. Then Lancastere did cry, "Know'st thou not me, nor yet thyself? "Who thou, and who am I? "Know' ft thou not me, who(God be prais'd) “Have brawl'd, and quarrel'd more, "Than all the line of Lancastere, "That battled heretofore? « In fenates 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 doft on me, But now the fervants they rush'd in; To-morrow with thee will I fight it." "No, not to-morrow, but to-night "(Quoth Guile) I'll fight with thee." And And now the fun declining low Full gently pranc'd he o'er the lawn; And from the stirrup ftretch'd to find Long brandifh'd' he the blade in air, At length he spy'd the merry-men brown, From out the boot bold Nicholas All in that dreadful hour fo calm As if he meant to take the air, And fo he did---for to New Court His rowling wheels did run: Not that he fhunn'd the doubtful ftrife; But bus'ness must be done. Back in the dark, by Brompton park, Mean while duke Guife did fret and fume, Then, wet and weary, home he far'd, "Mean time on every piffing-poft Now God preserve our gracious king, May learn this leffon from duke Nic. IF meagre Gildon draws his venal quill, I wifh the man a dinner, and fit ftill: If dreadful Dennis raves in furious fret, I'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 fome more fober criticks come broad, If wrong, I fmile; if right, I kifs the rod. Pains, reading, study, are their juft pretence; And all they want is fpirit, tafte, and sense. Commas and points they fet exactly right; And 'twere a fin to rob them of their mite: Yet ne'er one fprig of laurel grac'd those ribalds, From flashing Bentley down to pidling Tibalds, Who thinks he reads, when he but fcans and Spells; A word-catcher, that lives on fyllables. Yetev'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 ftraws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! The |