A Long Story In Britain's isle , no matter where , An ancient pile of building stands : The Huntingdons and Hattons there N : B : the House was built by the Earls of Huntingdon , & came from them to S [ i ] r Christopher afterwards L [ or ] d Keeper , Hatton , prefer'd by Q : Elizabeth for his graceful Person & fine Dancing . [ Garrett MS. ] Employed the power of fairy hands To raise the ceiling's fretted height , Each panel in achievements clothing , 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-Keeper led the brawls ; [ Lord-Keeper ] [ Sir Christopher ] Hatton [ Lord Chancellor ] , prefer'd by Queen Elizabeth for his graceful Person and fine Dancing . [ brawls ] an old fashion'd Dance . [ Garrett MS. ] The Seal and Maces danced before him . His bushy beard and shoe-strings green , His high-crowned hat and satin-doublet , Moved the stout heart of England's Queen , Though Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it . What , in the very first beginning ! Shame of the versifying tribe ! Your history 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 conquering 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 tipped her arrows with good-nature . To celebrate her eyes , her air — Coarse panegyrics would but tease her . Melissa is her nom de guerre . Alas , who would not wish to please her ! With bonnet blue and capucine , And aprons long they hid their armour , And veiled their weapons bright and keen In pity to the country-farmer . Fame in the shape of Mr. P[ur]t ( By this time all the parish know it ) Had told that thereabouts there lurked A wicked imp they call a poet , Who prowled the country far and near , Bewitched the children of the peasants , Dried up the cows and lamed the deer , And sucked the eggs and killed the pheasants . My lady heard their joint petition , Swore by her coronet and ermine , She'd issue out her high commission To rid the manor of such vermin . The heroines undertook the task ; Through lanes unknown , o'er stiles they ventured , Rapped at the door nor stayed to ask , But bounce into the parlour entered . The trembling family they daunt , They flirt , they sing , they laugh , they tattle , Rummage his mother , pinch his aunt , And up stairs in a whirlwind rattle . Each hole and cupboard they explore , Each creek and cranny of his chamber , Run hurry-skurry round the floor , And o'er the bed and tester clamber , Into the drawers and china pry , Papers and books , a huge imbroglio ! Under a tea-cup he might lie , Or creased , like dogs-ears , in a folio . On the first marching of the troops The Muses , hopeless of his pardon , Conveyed him underneath their hoops To a small closet in the garden . So Rumour says ( who will , believe ) But that they left the door ajar , Where , safe and laughing in his sleeve , He heard the distant din of war . Short was his joy . He little knew The power of magic was no fable . 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 birdlime formed the middle , And chains invisible the border . So cunning was the apparatus , The powerful pothooks did so move him , That , will he , nill he , to the Great-House [ Great-House ] So the Country People call it . [ Garrett MS. ] He went , as if the Devil drove him . Yet no his way ( no sign of grace , For folks in fear are apt to pray ) To Phoebus he preferred his case , And begged his aid that dreadful day . The godhead would have backed his quarrel , But , with a blush on recollection , Owned 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 ( Styack [ Styack ] The House-Keeper . has often seen the sight ) Or at the chapel-door stand sentry ; In peaked hoods and mantles tarnished , Sour visages , enough to scare ye , High dames of honour once , that garnished 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 , [ Squib ] [ James Squibb ] Groom of the Chambers . And all that Groom [ Groom ] The Steward . could urge against him . But soon his rhetoric forsook him , When he the solemn hall had seen ; A sudden fit of ague shook him , He stood as mute as poor Macleane . [ Macleane ] A famous Highwayman hang'd the week before . Yet something he was heard to mutter , ' How in the park beneath an old-tree ' ( Without design to hurt the butter , ' Or any malice to the poultry , ) ' He once or twice had penned a sonnet ; ' Yet hoped that he might save his bacon : ' Numbers would give their oaths upon it , ' He ne'er was for a conjurer taken . ' The ghostly prudes with hagged face Already had condemned the sinner . My lady rose and with a grace — She smiled , and bid him come to dinner . ' Jesu-Maria ! Madam Bridget , ' Why , what can the Viscountess mean ? ' ( Cried the square hoods in woeful fidget ) ' The times are altered quite and clean ! ' Decorum's turned to mere civility ; ' Her air and all her manners show it . ' Commend me to her affability ! ' Speak to a commoner and poet ! ' ( Here 500 stanzas are lost . ) And so God save our noble King , And guard us from long-winded lubbers , That to eternity would sing , And keep my lady from her rubbers .