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:

To-morrow with thee will I fight
Under the green-wood tree:'
"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 roll'd his eyes around,
And from the stirrup stretch'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 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:

And so he did-for to New Court

His rolling wheels did run:

Not that he shunn'd the doubtful strife;
But bus'ness must be done.

Back in the dark, by Brompton park,
He turn'd up through the Gore;
So slunk to Camden-house so high,
All in his coach and four.

Meanwhile Duke Guise did fret and fume, A sight it was to see,

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 shall rue
The cudgel of that day.

Meantime on every pissing-post
Paste we this recreant's name,
So that each passer by shall read
And piss against the same.'

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

May learn this lessen from Duke Nic,
That" pride will have a fall."

FRAGMENT OF A SATIRE.

[This fragment, with various alterations, was worked by Pope into the Epistle to Dr Arbuthnot, which forms the Prologue to his Satires.]

IF meagre Gildon draws his venal quill,
I wish the man a dinner, and sit still:
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 some more sober critics come abroad,
If wrong, I smile; if right, I kiss the rod.
Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence;
And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense.
Commas and points they set exactly right;
And 'twere a sin to rob them of their mite:
Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel grac'd those ribalds,
From slashing Bentley down to piddling Tibalds,
Who thinks he reads when he but scans and spells;
A word-catcher that lives on syllables.

Yet e'en this creature may some notice claim,
Wrapt round and sanctified with Shakespeare's name.
Pretty! in amber to observe the forms

Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms!
The thing, we know, is neither rich nor rare;
And wonder how the devil it got there.

Are others angry? I excuse them too: Well may they rage; I gave them but their due. Each man's true merit 'tis not hard to find; But each man's secret standard in his mind, That casting-weight pride adds to emptiness, This who can gratify? for who can guess? The wretch, whom pilfer'd pastorals renown, Who turns a Persian tale for half-a-crown, Just writes to make his barrenness appear, And strains from hardbound brains six lines a year: In sense still wanting, tho' he lives on theft, Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left. Johnson,† who now to sense, now nonsense leaning, Means not, but blunders round about a meaning: And he, whose fustian's so sublimely 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 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;

* Ambrose Philips translated a book called "Persian Tales ;" a book full of fancy and imagination.-POPE.

+ Author of the Victim, and Cobbler of Preston.-H.

Verse of Dr. Ev.-H.

Thus it originally stood in the "Miscellanies," though the name was afterwards altered to "Addison ;" a circumstance, says Mr Nicol, not noticed by the learned commentators upon Pope.-N.

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 flatterers 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 praise,
What pity, Heaven! if such a man there be;
Who would not weep, if ADDISON* were he!

* The quarrel between Pope and Addison, which gave rise to these memorable lines, does not belong to the works of Swift. Yet it is curious to trace the same similies applied to the same person, in a prose letter of Pope to Mr Craggs, 15th July 1725. "We have, it seems, a great Turk in poetry, who can never bear a brother on the throne; and he has his mutes too, a set of nodders, winkers, and whisperers, whose business is to strangle all other offsprings of wit in their birth."