The Huntingdons and Hattons there 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, [36] 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 brace of warriors, not in buff, But rustling in their silks and tissues. [37] The first came cap-a-pee from France, The other Amazon kind heav'n Had arm'd with spirit, wit, and satire : 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! 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. [37] 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 stanz. Fame, in the shape of Mr. P-t, [38] Who prowl'd the country far and near, My Lady heard their joint petition, The Heroines undertook the task, Thro' lanes unknown, o'er stiles they ventur'd, Rapp'd at the door, nor stay'd to ask, But bounce into the parlour enter'd. [38] 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 reason.Since the first Edition of this Volume was published, I have learned, that the allusion here is, to a Mr. Robert Purt, a Fellow of King's College, Cambridge; who died of the small-pox, April 1752, soon after the publication of the Poem. The trembling family they daunt, They flirt, they sing, they laugh, they tattle, Into the drawers and china pry, Short was his joy. He little knew The words too eager to unriddle, 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 Phœbus he preferr'd his case, And begg'd his aid that dreadful day. The Godhead wou'd 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: Such as in silence of the night Come (sweep) along some winding entry, |