Short was his joy. He Uttle knew
The pow'r of magic was no fable ;



64 Gray's Poevis.
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.
For folks in fear are apt to pray)

To Phoebus he preferr'd his case.
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 sate, the culprit there,

Forth from their gloomy mansions creeping.
The lady Janes and Joans repair.
And from the gallery stand peeping :



A Long Story. 65

Such as in silence of the night

Come (sweep) along some winding entry,

(Tyacke has often seen the sight, )
Or at the chapel-door stand sentry :

In peaked hoods and mantles tamish'd,

Sour visages, enough to scare ye,
High dames of honour once, that gamish'd

The drawing-room of fierce Queen Mary.
The peeress comes. The audience stare,
And doff their hats with due submission :

She curtsies, as she takes her chair,
To all the people of condition.
The bard, with many an artful fib.
Had in imagination fenced him,
Disproved the arguments of Squib,

And all that Groom could urge against him.
But soon his rhetoric forsook him.
