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'N BRITAIN's Isle, no matter where,

An ancient pile of building stands : The Huntingdons and Hattons there

Employ'd the pow'r of Fairy hands.

To raise the cieling's fretted height, Each pannel in atchievements cloathing,

Rich windows that exclude the light, And passages, that lead to nothing."

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Full oft within the spacious walls,

When he had fifty winters o'er him,

My grave * Lord Keeper led the Brawls::

The Seal and Maces danc'd before him.

His bushy 'beard, and shoe-strings green, His high-crown'd hat, and fattin doublet,

Mov'd the stout heart of England's Queen,

Tho' Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it.

What, in the very first beginning ! Shame of the versifying tribe !

Your Hist'ry whither are you spinning? Can you do nothing but describe?

A House

* Hatton, preferred by Queen Elizabeth for his graceful perfon and fine dancing,

A House there is, and that's enough)

From whence one fatal morning issues

A brace of Warriors, not in buff,

But rustling in their silks and tissues,

The first came cap-à-pié from France, Her conqu’ring destiny fulfilling,

Whom meaner Beauties eye akance,

And vainly ape her art of killing.

The other Amazon kind Heaven

Had arni'd with spirit, wit, and fatire :

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To celebrate her eyes, her air,

Coarse panegyricks would but teize her,

Melissa is her Nomme de Guerre,

Alas, who would not wish to please her.

With bonnet blue and capuchine,

And aprons long, they hid their armour,

And veil'd their weapons bright and keen,

In pity to the country farmer.

Fame, in the shape of Mr. P-t,

(By this time all the Parish know it)

Had told, that thereabouts there lurk'd

Ą wicked Imp they call a Poet,


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