6 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.

  7 The first came cap-a-pie from France,
      Her conquering destiny fulfilling,
    Whom meaner beauties eye askance,
      And vainly ape her art of killing.

  8 The other Amazon kind Heaven
      Had arm’d with spirit, wit, and satire;
    But Cobham had the polish given,
      And tipp’d her arrows with good nature.

  9 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!

  10 With bonnet blue and capuchine,
       And aprons long, they hid their armour;
     And veil’d their weapons, bright and keen,
       In pity to the country farmer.

  11 Fame, in the shape of Mr P—­t,
       (By this time all the parish know it),
     Had told that thereabouts there lurk’d
       A wicked imp they call a Poet,

  12 Who prowl’d the country far and near,
       Bewitch’d the children of the peasants,
     Dried up the cows, and lamed the deer,
       And suck’d the eggs, and kill’d the pheasants.

  13 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.

  14 The heroines undertook the task;
       Through lanes unknown, o’er stiles they ventured,
     Rapp’d at the door, nor stay’d to ask,
       But bounce into the parlour enter’d.

  15 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.

  16 Each hole and cupboard they explore,
       Each creek and cranny of his chamber,
     Run hurry-scurry round the floor,
       And o’er the bed and tester clamber;

  17 Into the drawers and china pry,
       Papers and books, a huge imbroglio! 
     Under a tea-cup he might lie,
       Or creased like dog’s-ears in a folio!

  18 On the first marching of the troops,
       The Muses, hopeless of his pardon,
     Convey’d him underneath their hoops
       To a small closet in the garden.

  19 So Rumour says; (who will believe?)
       But that they left the door a-jar,
     Where safe, and laughing in his sleeve,
       He heard the distant din of war.

  20 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.

  21 The words too eager to unriddle,
       The Poet felt a strange disorder;
     Transparent birdlime form’d the middle,
       And chains invisible the border.