Curious to trace the statesman to his home,
And moralize at leisure o'er his tomb :

She came not, with the pilgrim, tears to shed,
Mutter a vow, or trifle with a bead,

But fuch a sadness did her thoughts employ,
As lives within the neighbourhood of joy.
Reflecting much upon the mighty fhade,
His glories, and his miferies, fhe faid:

"How poor the lot of the once-honour'd dead!
Perhaps the duft is Williams, that we tread.
The learn'd, ambitious, politic, and great,
Statesman, and prelate, this alas! thy fate.
Cou'd not thy Lincoln yield her pastor room,
Cou'd not thy York fupply thee with a tomb?
Was it for this thy lofty genius foar'd,

Carefs'd by monarchs and by crowds ador'd?
For this, thy hand o'er rivals cou'd prevail,
Grafping by turns the crofier and the feal?
Who dar'd on Laud's meredian pow'r to frown,
And on aspiring Buckingham look down.

This thy gay morn,

but ere the day decline

Clouds gather, and adversity is thine.

Doom'd to behold thy country's fierce alarms,

What had thy trembling age to do with arms?
Thy lands dragoon'd, thy palaces in duft,
Why was thy life protracted to be curft?

Thy king in chains,thyfelf by lawless might
Strip't of all pow'r, and exil'd from thy right.

"He was made lord keeper of the great feal July 20. 1621.

Awhile

Awhile the venerable hero stood,

And ftemm'd with quiv'ring limbs the boist'rous flood;

At length, o'er-match'd by injuries and time,

Stole from the world and fought his native clime.

Cambria for him with moans her region fills :

She wept
his downfal from a thousand hills:
Tender embrac'd her prelate tho' undone,
Stretch'd out her mother-rocks to hide her fon :
Search'd, while alive, each vale for his repaft,
And, when he died, receiv'd him in her breast.
Envied Ambition! what are all thy fchemes,
But waking mifery, or pleafing dreams,
Sliding and tottering on the heights of ftate!
The fubject of this verfe declares thy fate.
Great as he was, you see how small the gain,
A burial fo obfcure, a Mufe fo mean.

Extempore Verfes upon a Trial of Skill between the two great Mafters of Defence, Meffieurs FIGG and SUTTON.

L

By Dr. BY ROM.

I.

ONG was the great Figg, by the prize-fighting fwains,

Sole monarch acknowledg'd of Mary-bone plains:

To the towns, far and near, did his valour extend,

And fwam down the river from Thame to Gravefend;

Where

Where liv'd Mr. Sutton, pipemaker by trade,

Who hearing that Figg was thought such a stout blade,
Refolv'd to put in for a share of his fame,

And fo fent to challenge the champion of Thame.

II.

With alternate advantage two trials had past,

When they fought out the rubbers on Wednesday last.
To fee fuch a conteft the houfe was fo full

There hardly was room left to thrust in your fkull.
With a prelude of cudgells we first were faluted,
And two or three shoulders moft handsomely fluted;
Till weary at laft with inferior difafters,

All the company cry'd, come, the mafters, the mafters.
III.

Whereupon the bold Sutton firft mounted the stage,
Made his honours as ufual, and yearn'd to engage ;
Then Figg, with a vifage fo fierce, yet fedate,

Came, and enter'd the lifts, with his fresh-fhaven pate;
T'heir arms were encircled with armigers too,

With a red ribbon Sutton's, and Figg's with a blue.

Thus adorn'd the two heroes, 'twixt fhoulder, and elbow, Shook hands, and went to 't, and the word it was Bilboe. IV.

Sure fuch a concern in the eyes of spectators,

Was never yet feen in our amphi-theatres.

Our commons and peers from their feveral places,

To half an inch distance all pointed their faces;

While the rays of old Phoebus, that fhot thro' the fky-light, Seem'd to make on the ftage a new kind of twilight;

And

And the Gods without doubt, if one cou'd but have seen 'em, Were peeping there thro' to do juftice between 'em.

V.

Figg ftruck the first stroke, and with such a vast fury,
That he broke his huge weapon in twain, I assure you;
And if his brave rival this blow had not warded,

His head from his shoulders had quite been discarded.
Figg arm'd him again, and they took t' other tilt,
And then Sutton's blade ran away from its hilt;
The weapons were frighted, but as for the men,
In truth they ne'er minded, but at it again.

VI.

Such a force in their blows, you'd have thought it a wonder
Every stroke they receiv'd did not cleave 'em asunder.
Yet fo great was their courage, fo equal their skill,
That they both feem'd as fafe as a thief in a mill;
While in doubtful attention dame Victory stood,
And which fide to take cou'd not tell for her blood,
But remain'd like the ass, 'twixt the bundles of hay,
Without ever stirring an inch either way.

VII.

Till Jove to the Gods fignified his intention

In a fpeech that he made 'em too tedious to mention ;
But the upshot on 't was, that at that very bout,
From a wound in Figg's fide the hot blood spouted out;
Her ladyship then seem'd to think the cafe plain,
But Figg ftepping forth with a fullen difdain,
Shew'd the gash, and appeal'd to the company round,
If his own broken fword had not given him the wound.

VIII. That

VIII.

That bruifes, and wounds a man's fpirit fhou'd touch,
With danger fo little, with honour fo much!

Well, they both took a dram, and return'd to the battle,
And with a fresh fury they made the swords rattle;
While Sutton's right arm was observed to bleed,
By a touch from his rival, so Jove had decreed;
Juft enough for to fhew that his blood was not icor,
But made up, like Figg's, of the common red-liquor.
IX.

Again they both rush'd with as equal a fire on,

'Till the company cry'd, hold, enough of cold iron,

To the quarter-staff now, lads. So first having dram'd it, They took to their woods, and i' faith never sham'd it. The first bout they had was so fair, and fo handsome, That to make a fair bargain, was worth a king's ransom; And Sutton fuch bangs on his neighbour imparted, Wou'd have made any fibres but Figg's to have smarted. X.

Then after that bout they went on to another

But the matter must end on some fashion, or other;

So Jove told the Gods he hath made a decree,
That Figg fhou'd hit Sutton a stroke on the knee.
Tho' Sutton difabled as foon as he hit him

Wou'd ftill have fought on, but Jove wou'd not permit him; 'Twas his fate, not his fault, that constrain'd him to yield, And thus the great Figg became lord of the field.

VOL. VI.

T

A Letter