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And when all other Dukes did bow,
This Duke did only nod.

Yet courteous, blithe, and, debonair,
To Guise's Duke was he:
Was ever such a loving pair?
How could they disagree?

Oh, thus it was: he lov'd him dear,
And cast how to requite him:
And, having no friend left but this,
He deem'd it meet to fight him.

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,

And fiercely drove them on;

Lord! Lord! how rattled then thy stones,

O kingly Kensington!

All on a trice he rush'd on Guise,

Thrust out his lady dear:

He tweak'd his nose, trod on his toes,

And smote him on the ear.

But mark, how 'midst of victory

Fate plays her old 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:
As who should say, alas the day
When John of Guise shall maul thee!

For on thee did he clap his chair,
And on that chair did sit;
And look'd as if he meant therein
To do- what was not fit.

Up didst thou look, O woful Duke!
Thy mouth yet durst not ope,
Certes for fear of finding there
A t-d, instead of trope.

"Lie there, thou caitiff vile!" quoth Guise;
No shift is here to save thee:
The casement it is shut likewise;
Beneath my feet I have thee.

If thou hast aught to speak, speak out."
Then Lancastere did cry,

"Know'st thou not me, nor yet thyself?
Who thou, and who am I?

Know'st thou not me, who (God be prais'd!)
Have brawl'd and quarrell'd more,
Than all the line of Lancastere,

That battled heretofore?

In senates fam'd for many a speech,
And (what some awe must give ye,
Tho' laid thus low beneath thy breech)
Still of the council privy;

Still of the Duchy Chancellor;
Durante life, I have it;

And turn, as now thou dost on me,
Mine a-se on them that gave it."

But now the servants they rush'd in;
And Duke Nic up leap'd he:
"I will not cope against such odds,
But, Guise! I'll fight with thee:

To-morrow with thee will I fight
Under the green-wood tree:'
"No, not to-morrow, but to night,'
Quoth Guise, "I'll fight with thee."

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And now the sun declining low
Bestreak'd with blood the skies;
When, with his sword at saddle-bow,
Rode forth the valiant Guise.

Full gently pranc'd he o'er the lawn;
Oft roll'd his eyes around,
And from the stirrup stretch'd to find
Who was not to be found.

Long brandish'd he the blade in air,
Long look'd the field all o'er:

At length he spied the merry-men brown,
And eke the coach and four.

From out the boot bold Nicholas
Did wave his wand so white,
As pointing out the gloomy glade
Wherein he meant to fight:

All in that dreadful hour so calm
Was Lancastere to see,

As if he meant to take the air,
Or only take a fee:

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And so he did-for to New Court

His rolling wheels did run:

Not that he shunn'd the doubtful strife;
But bus'ness must be done.

Back in the dark, by Brompton park,
He turn'd up through the Gore;
So slunk to Camden-house so high,
All in his coach and four.

Meanwhile Duke Guise did fret and fume,
A sight it was to see,
Benumb'd beneath the evening dew
Under the green-wood tree.

Then, wet and weary, home he farʼd,
Sore mutt'ring all the way,
"The day I meet him, Nic shall rue
The cudgel of that day.

Meantime on every pissing-post
Paste we this recreant's name,
So that each passer by shall read
And piss against the same."

Now God preserve our gracious king,
And grant his nobles all

May learn this lessen from Duke Nic,
That "pride will have a fall.”

FRAGMENT OF A SATIRE.

[This fragment, with various alterations, was worked by Pope into the Epistle to Dr Arbuthnot, which forms the Prologue to his Satires.]

IF

Ir meagre Gildon draws his venal quill,
I wish the man a dinner, and sit still:
If dreadful Dennis raves in furious fret,
I'll answer Dennis, when I am in debt.

If

'Tis hunger, and not malice, makes them print:
And who'll wage war with Bedlam or the Mint?
Should some more sober critics come abroad,
wrong, I smile; if right, I kiss the rod.
Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence;
And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense.
Commas and points they set exactly right;
And 'twere a sin to rob them of their mite:
Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel grac'd those ribalds,
From slashing Bentley down to piddling Tibalds,
Who thinks he reads when he but scans and spells;
A word-catcher that lives on syllables.

Yet e'en this creature may some notice claim,
Wrapt round and sanctified with Shakespeare's name.
Pretty! in amber to observe the forms

Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms!
The thing, we know, is neither rich nor rare;
And wonder how the devil it got there.

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