A LONG STORY,

Yet on his way (no sign of grace,
For folks in fear are apt to pray)
To Phœbus he preferr’d his cafe,
And begg’d his aid that dreadful day.

The Godhead would have back’d his quarrel,
But with a blush on recollection
Own’d that his quiver and his laurel
’Gainst four such eyes were no protection.

The Court was fat, the Culprit there,
Forth from their gloomy manions creeping
The Lady Janes and Foans repair,
And from the gallery stand peeping :

Such as in silence of the night
Come (sweep) along some winding entry
(Styack has often seen the fight)
Or at the chapel-door stand fentry ;

In

A LONG STORY.

In peaked hoods and mantles tarnish'd,
Sour vifages, enough to scare ye,
High Dames of honour once, that garnish'd
The drawing-room of fierce Queen Mary!

The Pecrefs comes. The Audience stare,
And doff their hats with due submission:
She curfies, as she takes her chair,
To all the People of condition.

The Bard with many an artful fib,
Had in imagination fenc'd him,
Difprov'd the arguments of Squib,
And all that Groom could urge against him:

But soon his rhetoric forfook him,
When he the Solemn hall had seen;
A fudden fit of ague fhook him,
He flood as mute as poor Macleane.

Yet