Doughty Sir Hall a tiptoe ftands,
With mighty Fauchion rear'd in Hands,
And Satisfaction demands,

For both bis Friends Mifchances;

He winks, and then Pell-mell let's drive,
Aiming his Head in twain to rive;

That was the gentlest Knight alive;

But flatlong on't it glances.

Our Champion's Head, and Brains ran round,
Down he was finking in a Sound,

But yet as foon's he toucht the Ground,

Up leapt he like Antæus (a):

The Turks Arrears he paid him foon,
Tho he for Grace did importune,
And made him fee more Stars at Noon,

Than e'er did Galilæus (b).

In vain the Wretch for Help does bawl,
On Back, and Sides, and Face and all,
With Knightly Prowefs he does fall,

And many a trusty greeting;

He laid on Load on empty Crown,
Until with a moft gracious Frown,
His Honour too came ratling down,

To give his Friends a meeting.
Stout Whig their Nofes gently tweaks,
Their Sculls, tho thick, all over breaks,
And his juft Anger on 'em wreaks

For their Affront Notorious:

He rends their Lace, and Linen pure, (Who can fo fad a fight endure?) And Point Cravats, and Garniture,

That made 'em look fo glorious.

(a) Antæus, a famous Moorfields Wrestler, who the oftner he was foil'd the more strength he had.

(b) Galilæus an old Conjurer (kin to Gadbury) that saw the Stars at Noon with a flying Glass.

Their empty Crowns rang jangling Peals,
Their Foe chimes backward, and reveals
The Fire that their warm Ear conceals

Whilst they're in woful pickle:

Had you but feen 'em how they fat,
Spoil'd of their Cloak, and Band, and Hat,
You would conclude they had been at

A Bristow Conventicle.

Now on the Floor their Corps he spreads,
Now on their Neck in Triumph treads,
Then disoblig'd their Loggerheads,

Jumbling them altogether:
And if they once but curft or frown'd,

He roll'd 'em round, and round, and round,
Trailing their Clothes about the Ground,

They knew not how nor whither.

Sometimes on their fat Guts he jumps,
Sometimes their Paunches rudely thumps,
And on their Heads makes Egg-like bumps,

Whilft their poor Pates were addled;
Now he their Jaws accofts with Hand,
Now on his Leg prepar'd did stand,
To give their Tails a Reprimand,

And now their Sides he fwaddled.

Still he lets drive his furious Blows,
Until at laft, as most fuppofe,
The Reverent Sirs affront his Nofe,
With Paracelfian Civet; (c)
So crafty Reynard now and then,
When outed by intruding Men,
Be.f the cleanly Badger's Den,

(c) AT-d they did!..

To make bis Land-Lord leave it.

The Tories their bang'd Sides bemoan,
They fadly yelp, O hone! O bone!
And with full many a dolorous Groan,

Hold up their Paws for pity.

Sir Bobb and Hal did deeply yell,
But who his direful Plaints can tell,
That was, while it feem'd good to Hell,
A Burden to the City?

Thirteen-Pence-Half-penny he'd bestow
With generous Fift on Conqu'ring Foe,
If he'd be pleas'd to let him go

But for one live-long Moment:

But fince fome wifer are than fome,
Our Champion threatens with a Drum
Beating before to kick 'em home,

Altho be ne'er fo meant.

As foon as they had ftrength to rife,
For Crick in Neck, in Back, in Thighs,
They look'd about to find their Eyes,

Thinking he'd beat 'em all out:

So have I seen a maimed Snail,
When by rude Heels its Rampires fail,
Dragging along its flimy Tail,

From thence attempt to crawl out.

The Christian had a Noble Soul,
And when he faw 'em thus condole,
He grants 'em Freedom on Parole,

While Fame bis Glory raises:

This Tell-tale Goddess had a Spy
That brought her word immediately;
About the City she does fly,

And trumpets out his Praises.

Of Tory Champions, fierce and stout,
London and England all throughout,
She the Atchievements spreads about,

And of their Valour tattles;

But with fly Malice chiefly she
Does magnify their Courtesy,

When they to odds must yield or flee

In fuch unequal Battels.

For

For when, by unexpected Chance,
One did against all Three advance,
They yielded out of Complaifance,

And took a Civil Drubbing:

But fince, altho Cock-fure, they fail,
And Three to One could not prevail,
Thus did the Hot-fpur Courage quail

Of poor Heroick Robin.

Fame's a damn'd Whig, they fret and cry,
(Screwing their Mouths up to their Eye)
If e'er we meet her she shall dye;

Kifs and tell! Out upon ber!

Fortune we find's a fickle Whore, We'll never truft the Gypfy more : (Thus like a Bittern they did roar)

Our Honour! O our Honour!

Their Friends advise 'em to compound;
If lufty Dyer may be found,

And get him unto filence bound,

Altbo be hard to win is;

With fense profound they gravely fay,
'Twould be the best and fafeft way,
To lock his Lips with Silver Kay,

Qr gag bis Mouth with Guinies.

'Twas spoke, and inftantly 'twas done; Whilst they their Pockets rummage, one To every Coffee-House does run,

To find Victorious Dyer:

They reafon'd on the Point, and he
Because they're Friends wont disagree,
But out of mere Civility

He grants 'em their Defire.

Elfe how is he fo chang'd become?
He answers nothing now but Mum!
To all Enquirers deaf and dumb,

Strangely retir'd o'th' fudden.

Ask

Ask him about it, ask again,
Tho of his Silence you complain,
Yet ftill you'll ask, and ask in vain;

For, not a word o'th' Pudding.

There's your true Spaniels for you, Sirs;
Kick 'em, they'll love you ne're the worse,
But, like good Chriftian honest Curs,

Or Women of Moscovy,

The longer Cudgel one provides,
To exercise their Back and Sides,
The longer their Good-will abides,

And they'll the longer love ye.

But, Tories, take a Friend's Advice,
Well-willer to your Nose and Eyes,
That never lik'd this Enterprize,

To Whig-land fo delighting:
Drink for the Duke while you can stand,
Chafe all Phanaticks round the Land,
With Glaffes ready charg'd in Hand;

But pray take heed of Fighting.

BACCHANA LI A:

Or a Defcription of a Drunken Club, 1683.

I.

T was my hap Spectator once to be,
As tunteen in fecret Angle fate,

Of that unmanly Croud,

Who, with Wits low, and Voices loud,
Were met to celebrate,

In Evening late,

The Bacchanalian Solemnity.

If what I then,

Or heard, or faw, I here relate agen;

Ac