Better to bottom tarts and cheese cakes nice, Than thus be patched and cobbled in one's grave. 20 So York shall taste what Clouet° never knew, SONG° THYRSIS, when we parted, swore Ere the spring he would return And the bud that decks the thorn! Idle notes! untimely green! 5 Speak not always winter past. 10 Cease, my doubts, my fears to move, Spare the honor of my love. A LONG STORY° IN Britain's isle, no matter where, An ancient pile of building stands: The Huntingdons and Hattons there To raise the ceiling's fretted height, Each panel in achievements clothing, Full oft within the spacious walls, The seals and maces danced before him. 5 10 His bushy beard, and shoe-strings green, What, in the very first beginning! Shame of the versifying tribe! Your history whither are you spinning? A house there is (and that's enough) But rustling in their silks and tissues. The first came cap-a-pee from France,° 15 Whom meaner beauties eye askance, The other amazon° kind heaven Had armed with spirit, wit, and satire; But Cobham had the polish given, And tipped 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 armor; And veiled 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 lurked A wicked imp they call a poet: Who prowled the country far and near, Dried up the cows, and lamed the deer, My lady heard their joint petition, She'd issue out her high commission To rid the manor of such vermin. The heroines undertook the task, Through lanes unknown, o'er stiles they ventured, Rapped at the door, nor stayed to ask, But bounce into the parlor entered. The trembling family they daunt, They flirt, they sing, they laugh, they tattle, Rummage his mother, pinch his aunt, And up stairs in a whirlwind rattle: Each hole and cupboard they explore, Into the drawers and china pry, Or creased, like dogs-ears, in a folio. On the first marching of the troops, So rumor says: (who will, believe.) 55 Where, safe and laughing in his sleeve, Short was his joy. He little knew The words too eager to unriddle, So cunning was the apparatus, The powerful pot-hooks did so move him, Yet on his way (no sign of grace, To Phoebus he preferred his case, And begged his aid that dreadful day. The godhead would have backed his quarrel; Owned that his quiver and his laurel 'Gainst four such eyes were no protection. The court was sate, the culprit there, Forth from their gloomy mansions creeping, |