Now, on the 19th of May, in the morning, Mr. Wogan found himself far enough from London, at the seat of Sir Harry Goring, a gentleman of Sussex, and a very loud friend of the Cause. This noisy Sir Harry drove Mr. Wogan back to town, in very great state and splendour, and drew up before Burton's coffee-house, at an hour when the streets had lost the high sun of the day. Mr. Wogan alighted, thinking to seek his letters at Burton's, and the baronet's carriage rolled off to his town house. Wogan entered the coffee-house; the great room was extraordinary full, and there was an eager buzz of talkers, who dropped their voices, and looked oddly at Mr. Wogan as he passed through, and so upstairs to a little chamber kept private for himself and his friends. As he went he heard roars of laughter, and a voice chanting in the deplorable, lamenting tone of the street ballad-singer. Mr. Wogan caught a name he knew in this ditty, and knocking hastily in the manner usual and arranged, was admitted. The room was thick with tobacco smoke, and half-a dozen empty bottles made mantraps on the floor. Through the Virginia haze Wogan saw two men; one was Tyrell, a friend of the Cause, the other was a tall man, very black, in whom he recognised his friend Talbot, of his own country and politics, nicknamed the Crow from his appearance. The Crow was swaying on his legs as he steadied himself by the table, and he sang:-- Let Weapons yield them to the Gown, The Latin Singers say: Ye Squires and Ladies of renown, The tune is changed to-day! A Lady loved a Parson good, And vowed she'd still be true, Alas, the Sword goes o'er the Hood, The Sword of Montague! 'What ribaldry have you got now?' said Wogan, but the Crow hastily embraced him in the French manner, holding the paper of the ballad over his shoulder, and still chanting. 'The little Parson is made immortal,' quoth he. 'Here is the newest ballad, all the story of his late amorous misfortune. Why do you look so glum?' For Wogan had gently disengaged himself from Mr. Talbot's embrace, who exhaled a perfume of wine and strong waters. 'Crow, you fool, be quiet,' said Wogan; 'this is miching mallecho! Who wrote that rant?' 'We think it is Lady Mary Montagu, from the Latin tags; it is headed _Cedat Armis Toga_.' But Lady Mary was not the writer, though she got the credit of the mischievous nonsense, as was intended, and 'hence these tears,' as the Parson said. Mr. Wogan had snatched the ballad into his hands by this time, where he intended to keep it. 'Gentlemen,' he asked, 'are you entirely sober?' 'Does my speech betray me? 'said Tyrell, who, to do him justice, was wholly in his right mind. 'That is no answer; but, if it were, and if you don't care for a lady's name--' 'She jilted the Parson!' cried the Crow. 'Have you no thought of the reputation of--Mr. Farmer?'