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-à-pie_ 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 _capuchine_, And aprons long, they hid their armor, And veiled their weapons, bright and keen, In pity to the country farmer. Fame, in the shape of Mr. P--t-- By this time all the parish knew 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 vermine. 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 parlor 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," &c.