"No, not to morrow, but to night,"
Quoth Guise, "I'll fight with thee:"
And now the sun declining low
Bestreak'd with blood the skies;
When, with his sword at saddle bow,
Rode forth the valiant Guise.
Full gently pranc'd he o'er the lawn;
Oft roll'd his eyes around,
And from the stirrup stretch'd to find
Who was not to be found.
Long brandish'd he the blade in air,
Long look'd the field all o'er:
At length he spied the merry-men brown,
And eke the coach and four.
From out the boot bold Nicholas
Did wave his wand so white,
As pointing out the gloomy glade
Wherein he meant to fight.
All in that dreadful hour so calm
Was Lancastere to see,
As if he meant to take the air,
Or only take a fee:
And so he did — for to New Court
His rolling wheels did run:
Not that he shunn'd the doubtful strife;
But business must be done.
Back in the dark, by Brompton park,
He turn'd up through the Gore;
So slunk to Cambden house so high,
All in his coach and four.
