In Britain’s Isle, no matter where,
An ancient pile of buildings stands:
The Huntingdons and Hattons there
Employ’d the power of Fairy hands

To raise the ceiling’s fretted height,
Each pannel in achievements cloathing,
Rich windows that exclude the light,
And passages, that lead to nothing.

Full oft within the spacious walls,
When he had fifty winters o’er him,
My grave Lord-Keeper1 led the Brawls;
The Seal, and Maces, danc’d before 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!
Shame of the versifying tribe!
Your Hist’ry whither are you spinning?
Can you do nothing but describe?

A House there is, (and that’s enough)
From whence one fatal morning issues
A brace of Warriors, not in buff,
But rustling in their silks and tissues.

The first came cap-a-pee from France
Her conqu’ring destiny fulfilling,
Whom meaner beauties eye askance,
And vainly ape her art of killing.

The other Amazon kind heaven
Had armed with spirit, wit, and satire:
But COBHAM had the polish given
And tip’d her arrows with good-nature.

To celebrate her eyes, her air -
Coarse panegyricks would but teaze her.
Melissa is her Nom de Guerre.
Alas, who would not wish to please her!
...