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 odd's,
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."

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:

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 sluuk to Cambden 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 greenwood tree.

Then, wet and weary, home he far'd,

Sore mutt'ring all the way,

"The day I meet him, Nic. shall rue
The cudgel of that day.

Mean time 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 lesson from Duke Nic.,
That pride will have a fall."

FRAGMENT OF A SATIRE.*

IF meagre Gildon draw 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.

'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,
If 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,

* Thus was this Poem originally entitled, in the “Miscellanies,” published by Swift and Pope in 1727. It was afterward inserted, 1734-5, with many material alterations, in Mr. Pope's Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot, being the Prologue to the Satires. N

†The unexpected turn in the second line of each of these three couplets, contains as cutting and bitter strokes of satire as, perhaps, can be written. It is with difficulty we can forgive our author for upbraiding these wretched scribblers for their poverty and distresses, if we do not keep in our minds the grossly abusive pamphlets they published; and, even allowing this circumstance, we ought to sepa rate rancour from reproof:

"Cur tam crudeles optavit sumere pœnas?"

Dr. WARTON This great man, with all his faults, deserved to be put into better company. WARBURTON.

Swift imbibed from Sir William Temple, and Pope from Swift, an inveterate and unreasonable aversion and contempt for Beutley; but I have been informed, that there was still an additional cause for Pope's resentment: that Atterbury, being in company with Bentley and Pope, insisted on knowing the Doctor's opinion of the English Homer; and that, being earnestly pressed to declare his sentiments freeTy, be said, "The verses are good verses; but the work is not Homer,

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 Shakspeare'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.

Are others angry? I excuse them too :
Well may they rage; I gave them but their due.
Each man's true merit 'tis not hard to find;
But each man's secret standard in his mind,
That casting-weight pride adds to emptiness,
This who can gratify? for who can guess?
The wretch, who pilfer'd pastorals renown,
Who turns a Persian talet for half a crown,
Just writes to make his barrenness appear,

And strains from hardbound brains six lines a year :

it is Spondanus." It may however be observed, in favour of Pope, that Dr. Clarke, whose critical exactness is well known, has not been able to point out above three or four mistakes in the sense throughout the whole Iliad. Dr. WARTON.

* This couplet was afterward thus altered:

"E'en such small critics some regard may claim,
Preserv'd in Milton's or in Shakspeare's name." N.

Philips, certainly not a very animated or first-rate writer, yet appears not to deserve quite so much contempt; if we look at his first and fifth pastoral, &c. &c. and above all, his pleasing tragedy of "The Distressed Mother." The secret grounds of Philips's malignity to Pope, are said to have been the ridicule and laughter he met with from the Hanover club, of which he was secretary, for mistaking the incomparable ironical paper in the Guardian, No. 40, which was written by Pope, for a serious criticism on pastoral poetry. The learned Hey ne also mistook this irony.

Dr. WARTON. Ambrose Philips translated a book, called, "Persian Tales," a book full of fancy and imagination. POPE.

In sense still wanting, tho' he lives on theft,
Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left.
Johnson,* who now to sense, now nonsense leaning,
Means not, but blunders round about a meaning:
And he, whose fustain 's so sublimely bad,
It is not poetry but prose run mad ;†

Should modest Satire bid all these translate,
And own that nine such poets make a Tate;

How would they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe
How would they swear not CONGREVE's‡ self was safe?
Peace to all such! but were there one whose fires
Apollo kindled, and fair Fame inspires:

Blest with each talent and each art to please,
And born to write, converse, and live with ease :
Should such a man, too fond to rule alone,
Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne ;
View him with scornful, yet with fearful eyes,
And hate for arts that caus'd himself to rise;
Damn with faiut praise, assent with civil leer,
And without sneering teach the rest to speer:
Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
Just hiut a fault, and hesitate dislike;
Alike reserv'd to blame or to commend,
A tim❜rous foe, and a suspicious friend :
Dreading e'en fools by flatterers besieg'd,
And so obliging, that he ne'er oblig'd;
Who, if two wits on rival themes contest,
Approves of each, but likes the worst the best;
Like Cato, gives his little senate laws,
And sits attentive to his own applause;

* Author of the Victim, and Cobler of Preston. H.

Verse of Dr. Ev. H.

Thus it originally stood in the "Miscellanies," though the name was afterward altered to "Addison;" a circumstance not noticed by the learned commentators upon Pope. N.