A LONG STORY.

Full oft within the spacious walls,
When he had fifty winters o'er him,
My grave Lord-Keeper led the Brawls:
The Seals and Maces 'danc'd before him.

His buffy beard, and shoe-strings green,
His high-crown'd hat, and fatin doublet,
Mov'd the stout heart of England's Queen,
Tho' Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it.

What, in the very first beginning!
Shame of the verifying 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 iflues
A brace of warriors, not in buff,
But ruffling in their filks and tiflues.

The