tle, I would back Smithfield, or most of our
English market Towns, against any _forum boarium_ of the
Romans.

Over the moat, (the draw-bridge being down)
Gallantly stalk'd the brawny Duke of Limbs,
Bearing _Johannes_, of the shaven crown,
Fame'd, when alive, for spoiling maids, and hymns;
For mangling _Pater-Nosters_, and goose-pies,
And telling sundry beads,--and sundry lies.

Across a marsh he strode, with steadier gait
Than Satan trod the Syrtis, at his fall,
And perch'd himself, with his monastick weight,
Upon the Convent-garden's wall;--

Whence, on the grounds within it, as he gaze'd,
To find a spot where he might leave his load,
He 'spied a _House_ so _little_, it seem'd raise'd
More for Man's visits, than his fix'd abode;--
And Cynthia aided him to gaze his fill,
For, now, she sought Endymion on the hill.

Arise, Tarquinius![11] shew thy lofty face!
While I describe, with dignity, the place.

[11] _Tarquinius Superbus_, the last King of Rome;--he was a
haughty Monarch, and built the _Cloaca maxima_.

Snug in an English garden's shadiest spot,
A structure stands, and welcomes many a breeze;
Lonely, and simple as a Ploughman's cot,
Where Monarchs may unbend, who wish for ease.

There sit Philosophers; and sitting read;
And to some end apply the dullest pages;
And pity the Barbarians, north of Tweed,
Who scout these fabricks of the southern Sages.

Sure, for an Edifice in estimation,
Never was any less presuming seen!
It shrinks, so modestly, from observation!
And hides behind all sorts of evergreen;--
Like a coy Maid, design'd for filthy Man,
Peeping, at his approach, behind her fan.

Into this place, unnotice'd by beholders,
The Duke of Limbs, most circumspectly, stole,
And shot the Friar off his shoulders,
Just like a sack of round Newcastle coal:

Not taking any pains,
Nor caring, in the least,
How he deposited the Friar's remains,
No more than if a Friar were a beast.

No funeral, of which you ever heard,
Was mark'd with ceremonies half so slight;
For John was left, not like the dead interr'd,
But, like the living, sitting bolt upright!

Has no shrewd Reader, of one sex or t'other,
Recurring to the facts already stated,
Thought on a certain Roger?--that same brother
Who hated John, and whom John hated?