To chufe your baker, think, and think again, While penfive cruft beheld its form o'erthrown, O be not, be not tempted, lovely Nell, Then fhall thou pleas'd, the noble fabrick view, } Upon the Duke of MARLBOROUGH'S House at Woodstock. Atria longe patent; fed nec cœnantibus ufquam, EE, Sir, fee here's the grand approach, This way is for his grace's coach; There lies the bridge, and here's the clock, Obferve the lion and the cock, Mart. Epig. The The fpacious court, the colonade, Thanks, fir, cry'd I, 'tis very fine, A Letter fent by Sir JOHN SUCKLING from France, deploring his fad Estate and Flight. With a Discovery of the Plot and Confpiracy, intended by him and his Adherents againft England. Go, doleful fheet, to every street Of London round about-a, And tell 'em all thy master's fall That lived bravely mought-a. Sir John in fight as brave a wight As the knight of the fun-a; Is forc'd to go away with woe, And from his country run-a. Unhappy ftars to breed fuch jars, That England's chief Sucklin-a Should prove of late the fcorn of fate And fortune's unlucklin-a; But But ye may fee inconftancy In all things under heaven-a: When god withdraws his gracious laws Alas, alas, how things do país; I that in court have made fuch sport And tickled all, both great and small, The maids of honour round-a. . I that did play both night and day And revell'd here and there-a, Had change of fuits, made lays to lutes, And blufter'd every where-a. I that could write, and well indite, As 'tis to ladies known-a, And bore the praife, for fongs and plays, Far more than were mine own-a. I that did lend and yearly spend Thousands out of my purse-a, And gave the king, a wond'rous thing, At once a hundred horse-a. Bleft providence that kept my fenfe So well, that I fond elf-a, Should chance to hit to have the wit, To keep one for myself-a. I that march'd forth into the north, And went up hills amain-a With fword and lance, like king of France, And so came down again-a, I I that have done fuch things, the fun And moon did never fee-a, Yet now poor John, a pox upon The fates, is fain to flee-a.. And for the brave, I us'd to have, In all I wore or eat-a Accurfed chance, to spoil the dance, I fcarce have clothes or meat-a. Could not the plot by which I got, Such credit in the play-a, Aglaura bright, that Perfian wight, My roving fancy ftay-a; But I muft fly, at things fo high, Above me not allow'd-a; And I Sir John, like Ixion, For Juno kifs a cloud-a. Would I had burn'd it when I turn'd it Out of a comedy-a, There was an omen, in the nomen I fear of tragedy-a; Which is at last upon me caft, And I proclaim'd a fot-a, For thinking to with English do, As with a Perfian plot-a. But now I find, with grief of mind, What will not me avail-a, That plots in jeft are ever beft, When plots in earnest fail-a. Why could not I, in time efpy, The The valiant Percy, god have mercy The witty poet, (let all know it) In this defign, that I call mine, I utterly disclaim-a. Though he can write, he cannot fight, And bravely take a fort-a; Nor can he smell a project well, His nofe, it is too short-a. "Tis true, we met in council fet, And plotted here in profe-a; And what he wanted, it is granted, A bridge made of his nose-a. But to impart it to his art, We had made pretty stuff-a: No, for the plot that we had got, One poet was enough-a. Which had not fate, and prying ftate, Crush'd in the very womb-a, We had e'er long, by power ftrong, Oh what a fright had bred that fight, When men quarter'd, women flaughter'd, So thick should die, the enemy The very fight should scare-a, That |