A LONG STORY."

N Britain's ifle, no matter where,

An ancient pile of building ftands: The Huntingdons and Hatton's there Employ'd the pow'r of fairy hands

To raise the ceiling's fretted height,

Each pannel in achievements clothing,

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

Full oft within the fpacious walls,
When he had fifty winters o'er him,
My grave Lord-Keeper' led the brawls;

The feals and maces danced before him.

His bushy beard, and shoe-strings green,

His high-crown'd hat, and fatin doublet, Moved the ftout heart of England's queen,

Though Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it.

What, in the very first beginning!
Shame of the verfifying tribe!
Your hift'ry whither are you spinning!
Can you do nothing but describe?

A house there is (and that's enough)
From whence one fatal morning iffues

A brace of warriors, not in buff,

But rustling in their filks and tiffues.

The first came cap-a-pee from France,
Her conqu❜ring destiny fulfilling,
Whom meaner beauties eye askance,

And vainly ape her art of killing.

The other amazon kind heav'n

Had arm'd with fpirit, wit, and fatire;

But Cobham had the polish giv'n,

And tipp'd her arrows with good-nature.

To celebrate her eyes, her air

Coarse panegyrics would but tease her; Melissa is her " nom 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

A wicked imp they call a poet: