Part 7 (1/2)
A Lance was in the rest, of stately beech: Nothing was wanting, but a Page, or 'Squire;-- The Duke, with thistles, switch'd old Dumpling's breech; And off he clatter'd with the martial Friar.
Now, in the Convent let us take a peep,-- Where Roger, like Sir Thomas, couldn't sleep:
Instead of singing requiems, and psalms, For fat John's soul, he had been seize'd with qualms, Thinking it would be rash to tarry there;-- And having, prudently, resolve'd on flight, Knock'd up a neighbouring miller, in the night, And borrow'd his grey Mare.
Thus, trotting off,--beneath a row of trees He saw ”a sight that made his marrow freeze!”
A furious Warrior follow'd him, in mail, Upon a Charger, close at his Mare's tail!
He cross'd himself!--and, canting, cried, Oh, sadly have I sinned!
Then stuck his heels in his Mare's side; And, then, old Dumpling whinny'd!
Roger whipp'd, and Roger spurr'd, Distilling drops of fear!
But while he spurr'd, still, still he heard The wanton Dumpling at his rear.
'Twas dawn!--he look'd behind him, in the chase; When, lo! the features of fat John,-- His beaver up, and pressing on,-- Glare'd, ghastly, in the wretched Roger's face!
The Miller's Mare, who oft had gone the way, Scamper'd with Roger into Norwich town; And, there, to all the market-folks' dismay, Old Dumpling beat the mare, with Roger, down.
Brief let me be;--the Story soon took air;-- For Townsmen are inquisitive, of course, When a live Monk rides in upon a Mare, Chase'd by a dead one, arm'd, upon a Horse.
Sir Thomas up to London sped, full fast, To beg his life, and lands, of Royal Harry, And, for his services, in Gallia, past, His suit did not miscarry:--
For, in those days,--thank Heaven they are mended!-- Kings hang'd poor Rogues, while rich ones were befriended.
[Ill.u.s.tration]
YE CRITICKS, and ye HYPER-CRITICKS!--who Have deign'd (in reading this my story thro') A patient, or impatient, ear to lend me,-- If, as I humbly amble, ye complain I give my Pegasus too loose a rein, 'Tis time to call _my Betters_ to defend me.
Come, SWIFT! who made so merry with the Nine; With thy far bolder Muse, Oh, shelter mine!
When she is style'd a slattern, and a trollop;-- Force stubborn Gravity to doff his gloom; Point to thy Caelia, and thy Dressing-Room, Thy Nymph at bed-time, and thy fame'd Maw-Wallop!
Come, STERNE!--whose prose, with all a Poet's art, Tickles the fancy, while it melts the heart!-- Since at apologies I ne'er was handy,-- Come, while fastidious Readers run me hard, And screen, sly playful wag! a hapless Bard, Behind one volume of thy Tristram Shandy!
_Ye Two, alone!_--tho' I could bring a score Of brilliant names, and high examples, more-- Plead for me, when 'tis said I misbehave me!
And, ye, _sour Censors_! in your crabbed fits, Who will not let them rescue me as _Wits_, Prithee, as _Parsons_, suffer 'em to save me!
[Ill.u.s.tration]
THE ELDER BROTHER.
CENTRICK, in London noise, and London follies, Proud Covent Garden blooms, in smoky glory; For chairmen, coffee-rooms, piazzas, dollies, Cabbages, and comedians, fame'd in story!
On this gay spot, (upon a sober plan,) Dwelt a right regular, and staid, young man;-- Much did he early hours and quiet love; And was ent.i.tle'd Mr. Isaac Shove.
An Orphan he;--yet rich in expectations, (Which n.o.body seem'd likely to supplant,) From, that prodigious _bore_ of all relations, A fusty, canting, stiff-rump'd Maiden Aunt: The wealthy Miss Lucretia Cloghorty,-- Who had brought Isaac up, and _own'd_ to forty.
Shove on this maiden's Will relied securely; Who vow'd she ne'er would wed, to mar his riches; Full often would she say of men demurely,-- ”I can't abide the filthy things in breeches!”
He had Apartments up two pair of stairs; On the first floor lodge'd Doctor Crow;-- The Landlord was a torturer of hairs, And made a grand display of wigs, below; From the beau's Brutus, to the parson's grizzle:-- Over the door-way was his name;--'twas Twizzle.