WESTMINSTER HALL.
��WELL ! one must own this is a goodly room, Of vast and fair proportions, where at ease,
The tallest sons of Anak might have towered, Waltzing or promenading, as they please,
The Norman hunter-king hath left behind
A lordly gift, to keep his red elf-locks in mind.
And here, they say, the gay and fickle son
Of the brave Black Prince held a revel proud,
Feasting ten thousand guests. I wonder where They served or seated such a mighty crowd,
While with a right good-will that scorned control
The huge sirloin they carved, and drained the wassail- bowl.
��Amid the royal train, methinks, I see
Old John of Gaunt, whose dark, prophetic frown
Dwells on his banished son, while mad with glee Unthinking Richard shakes his rubied crown,
Reckless, as when he rushed with beardless face
To meet Wat Tyler s mob, where Walworth reared his mace.
�� �
