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With Spanish wool he dy'd his cheek,
Nor could so scratch and tear.
Right tall he made himself to show,
Yet courteous, blithe, and debonnair,
Oh, thus it was: he lov'd him dear,
Forthwith he drench'd his desp'rate quill,
And thus he did indite:
"This eve at whisk ourself will play,
Sir duke! be here to night."
"Ah no! ah no!" the guileless Guise Demurely did reply;
"I cannot go, nor yet can stand,
So sore the gout have I."
The duke in wrath call'd for his steeds,
Lord! Lord! how rattled then thy stones,
O kingly Kensington!
All in a trice he rush'd on Guise,
Thrust out his lady dear:
He tweak'd his nose, trod on his toes,
But mark, how 'midst of victory
Fate plays her oid dog trick!
Up leap'd duke John, and knock'd him down, And so down fell duke Nic.
Alas, O Nic.! O Nic. alas!
Right did thy gossip call thee:
For on thee did he clap his chair,
Up didst thou look, O woful duke!
"Lie there, thou caitiff vile!" quoth Guise;
If thou hast ought to speak, speak out."
"Know'st thou not me, nor yet thyself?
Who thou, and who am I?
Know'st thou not me, who (God be prais'd!)
That battled heretofore?
In senates fam'd for many a speech,
Still of the duchy chancellor;
Durante life, I have it;
And turn, as now thou dost on me,
But now the servants they rush'd in;
To-morrow with thee will I fight.
And now the sun declining low
Full gently pranc'd he o'er the lawn;
Long brandish'd he the blade in air,
At length he spied the merry-men brown,
From out the boot bold Nicholas
All in that dreadful hour so calm
As if he meant to take the air,
And so he did-for to New Court
Not that he shunn'd the doubtful strife;
Back in the dark, by Brompton park,
Mean while duke Guise did fret and fume,
Then, wet and weary, home he far'd,
Mean time on every pissing-post
Now God preserve our gracious king,
May learn this lesson from duke Nic
FRAGMENT OF A SATIRE *.
IF meagre Gildon draws his venal quill,
I wish the man a dinner, and sit still :
'Tis hunger, and not malice, makes them print;
Thus was this Poem originally entitled, in the "Miscel lanies," published by Swift and Pope in 1727. It was afterward inserted, 1734-5, with many material alterations, in Mr. Pope's Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot, being the Prologue to the Sa tires. N.
The unexpected turn in the second line of each of these three couplets, contains as cutting and bitter strokes of satire as, perhaps, can be written. It is with difficulty we can forgive our Author for upbraiding these wretched scribblers for their poverty and distresses, if we do not keep in our minds the grossly abusive pamphlets they published; and, even allowing this circumstance, we ought to separate rancour from reproof:
"Cur tam crudeles optavit sumere pœnas?"
This great man, with all his faults, deserved to be put into better company. WARBURTON.
Swift imbibed from sir William Temple, and Pope from Swift, an inveterate and unreasonable aversion and contempt for Bentley; but I have been informed, that there, was still an additional cause