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LONG STOR Y.

'N BRITAIN'S Ifle, no matter where,

IN

An ancient pile of building ftands: 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 paffages, that lead to nothing."

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Full oft within the fpacious 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 fhoe-ftrings green, His high-crown'd hat, and fattin doublet, Mov'd the ftout heart of England's Queen, Tho' Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it.

What, in the very first beginning!

Shame of the verfifying tribe!

Your Hift'ry whither are you fpinning?

Can you do nothing but defcribe?

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 iffues.

A brace of Warriors, not in buff,. But rustling in their filks and tiffues,.

The first came cap-à-pié from France,

Her conqu❜ring destiny fulfilling,

Whom meaner Beauties eye askance,

And vainly ape her art of killing.

The other Amazon kind Heaven

Had arm'd with spirit, wit, and satire :

But COBHAM had the polish given,

And tip'd her Arrows with good-nature.

To celebrate her eyes, her air,

Coarfe panegyricks would but teize her,

Meliffa 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 fhape of Mr. Pt,

(By this time all the Parish know it)

Had told, that thereabouts there lurk'd

A wicked Imp they call a Poet,

Who

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