People, Society & Culture of Tunbridge Wells in the 18th Century & later.

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Then lent poor Sola such a Wherrit,
That prov'd quite Discord to his Spirit,
Who eager to revenge the stroke,
That would a Coward's Soul provoke,
His Passion grown so very fierie,
Now rais'd at least to Alamire,
In the Beau's face his head he flung,
And struck the Champion all along,
Who was so stunn'd with Blow and Fall,
As if nock'd down with Cannon Ball;
The Foe with Courage still pursu'd,
Th' advantage as a Boxer shou'd,
And made the Beau at last Cry out,
Pray, Sir, be merciful as stout;
Tear not my Wig for Heaven's sake,
Because 'twas Monsieur Daily's make ;
And I beseech you spare my Face,
For His my only Market-place.
The Beaus that were before at distance,
Came now to Brother Fop's assistance,
Fell nobly on the Conqueror,
And bravely kick'd him like a Cur,
Loo'd on their Liv'ry-hounds, and fet-a
Whole Pack of Dogs on poor Sonata,
Who else 'tis verily supposen,
Had beat of Beaus at least a Dozen :
They kick'd him, punch'd him, stamp'd his Belley,
And almost beat him to a Jelly;
Such Valour sure was never seen,
In gallant Heroes, and their Men,
That Twenty odd bold Champions shou'd,
Without the loss of Limb or Blood,
Be almost one poor Fidler's death,
And maul him, nay, in spight of 's teeth;
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