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To raise the ceiling's fretted height,
Full oft within the spacious walls,
When he had fifty winters o'er him,
His bushy-beard, and shoe-strings green,
His high-crown'd hat, and satin doublet, Mov'd the stout heart of England's Queen, Tho' Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it.
What, in the very first beginning!
 Sir Christopher Hatton, promoted by Queen Elizabeth for his graceful person and fine dancing.-Brawls were a sort of figure-dance, then in vogue.
A house there is (and that's enough)
The first came cap-a-pee from France,
Her conquering destiny fulfilling, Whom meaner beauties eye askance, And vainly ape her art of killing.
The other Amazon kind heav'n
And tipp'd her arrows with good-nature.
To celebrate her eyes, her air
Coarse panegyrics would but teaze her. Melissa is her Nom de Guerre.
Alas, who would not wish to please her!
 The reader is already apprized who these Ladies were; the two descriptions are prettily contrasted; and nothing can be more happily turned than the compliment to Lady Cobham in the eighth stanza.
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 shape of Mr. P―t, 
(By this time all the parish know it) Had told that thereabouts there lurk'd A wicked Imp they call a Poet:
Who prowl'd the country far and near,
Bewitch'd the children of the peasants, Dried up the cows, and lam'd the deer, And suck'd the eggs, and kill'd the pheasants.
My Lady heard their joint petition,
Swore by her coronet and ermine, She'd issue out her high commission
To rid the manor of such vermin.
 It has been said, that this Gentleman, a neighbour and acquaintance of Mr. Gray's in the country, was much displeased at the liberty here taken with his name; yet, surely, without any great
The Heroines undertook the task,
Thro' lane's unknown, o'er stiles they ventur'd, Rapp'd at the door, nor stay'd to ask,
But bounce into the parlour enter'd.
The trembling family they daunt,
They flirt, they sing, they laugh, they tattle, Rummage his Mother, pinch his Aunt,
And up stairs in a whirlwind rattle.
Each hole and cupboard they explore,
Each creek and cranny of his chamber, Run hurry-skurry round the floor,
And o'er the bed and tester clamber;
Into the drawers and china pry,
Or creased, like dogs-ears, in a folio.
On the first marching of the troops,
So Rumour says: (Who will, believe.)
Short was his joy. He little knew
The power of Magic was no fable; Out of the window, whisk, they flew, But left a spell upon the table.
The words too eager to unriddle,
The Poet felt a strange disorder; Transparent bird-lime form'd the middle, And chains invisible the border.
So cunning was the Apparatus,
The powerful pot-hooks did so move him, That, will he, nill he, to the Great House He went, as if the Devil drove him.
Yet on his way (no sign of grace,