For not the desk with silver nails,
Nor bureau of expence.
Nor standish well japann'd, avails
To writing of good sense.

Hear how a ghost in dead of night,
With saucer eyes of fire,
In woful wise did sore affright
A wit and courtly 'squire.

Rare imp of Phoebus, hopeful youth!
Like puppy tame, that uses

To fetch and carry in his mouth
The works of all the Muses.

Ah! why did he write poetry,
That hereto was so civil;
And sell his soul for vanity
To rhyming and the devil?

A desk he had of curious work,
With glittering studs about;
Within the same did Sandys lurk
Though Ovid lay without.

Now, as he scratch'd to fetch up thought
Forth popp'd the sprite so thin,
And from the keyhole bolted out

All upright as a pin.

With whiskers, band, and pantaloon,
And ruff compos'd most duly,
This 'squire he dropp'd his pen full soon,
While as the light burnt bluely.

Ho! master Sam, quoth Sandys' sprite,
Write on, nor let me scare ye;

1

Forsooth, if rhymes fall not in right.
To Budgel seek or Carey.

I hear the beat of Jacob's* drums,
Poor Ovid finds no quarter!
See first the merry P-† comes
In haste without his garter.

Then lords and lordlings, 'squires and knights,
Wits, witlings, prigs, and peers:

Garth at St James's, and at White's,
Beats up for volunteers.

What Fenton will not do, nor Gay,
Nor Congreve, Rowe, nor Stanyan,
Tom Burnet or Tom D'Urfey may,
John Dunton, Steele, or any one.

If justice Philips' costive head
Some frigid rhymes disburses:
They shall like Persian tales be read,
And glad both babes and nurses.

Let Warwick's Muse with Ash-t join,
And Ozel's with Lord Hervey's,

Tickell and Addison combine,

And Pope translate with Jervas.

L- himself, that lively lord,
Who bows to every lady,

Shall join with F-in one accord,
And be like Tate and Brady.

* Old Jacob Tonson, the editor of the Metamorphoses. + Pembroke, probably.

Ye ladies, too, draw forth your pen;
I pray, where can the hurt lie?
Since you have brains as well as men,
As witness Lady Wortley.

Now, Tonson, list thy forces all,
Review them and tell noses:
For to poor Ovid shall befal
A strange metamorphosis;

A metamorphosis more strange

Than all his books can vapour

"To what (quoth 'squire) shall Ovid change?" Quoth Sandys, "To waste paper."

UMBRA.

[Curll says this character was intended to ridicule a very worthy gentleman, probably Ambrose Philips.]

CLOSE to the best known author UMBRA sits,

The constant index to old Button's wits.

"Who's here?" cries Umbra: “

only Johnson"*

Your slave," and exit; but returns with Rowe: "Dear Rowe, let's sit and talk of tragedies:" Ere long Pope enters, and to Pope he flies.

* Charles Johnson, a second rate dramatist, and great frequenter of Button's. Pope elsewhere classes him with Philips:

"Lean Philips and fat Johnson.”

-Farewell to London.

Then up comes Steele: he turns upon his heel,
And in a moment fastens upon Steele;

But cries as soon, "Dear Dick, I must be gone,
For, if I know his tread, here's Addison."
Says Addison to Steele, ""Tis time to go:"
Pope to the closet steps aside with Rowe.
Poor Umbra, left in this abandon'd pickle,
E'en sits him down, and writes to honest Tickell.
Fool! 'tis in vain from wit to wit to roam;
Know, sense like charity "begins at home."

DUKE UPON DUKE.

AN EXCELLENT NEW BALLAD.

To the Tune of "Chevy Chace."

This excellent ballad is founded upon a quarrel between Sir John Guise, Bart. Member of Parliament for Gloucestershire, and Nicholas, Lord Lechmere, a Whig statesman of some cmi nence, at the time Chancellor of the Duchy Court of Lancaster, which gives rise to the title by which he is here designated. No particulars of the quarrel, which seems to have been quite personal, has reached the present time. But the poem was given to the hawkers, and sung through the streets, as appears from its existing in broadside copies, with the music, which is said to have been composed by Mr Holdecombe. One of these copies is in the celebrated collection, Narcissus Luttrel, and is dated 24th August 1720.]

To Lordlings proud I tune my lay,
Who feast in bow'r or hall:

Though dukes they be, to dukes I say,
That pride will have a fall.

Now, that this same it is right sooth,
Full plainly doth appear,

From what befel John Duke of Guise,
And Nic of Lancastere.

When Richard Cœur de Lion reign'd,
(Which means a lion's heart)
Like him his barons rag'd and roar'd:
Each play'd a lion's part.

A word and blow was then enough:
Such honour did them prick,
If you but turn'd your cheek, a cuff;
And if your a-se, a kick.

Look in their face, they tweak'd your nose;
At ev'ry turn fell to't;

Come near, they trod upon your toes;
They fought from head to foot.

Of these the Duke of Lancastere

Stood paramount in pride;

He kick'd, and cuff'd, and tweak'd, and trod His foes and friends beside.

Firm on his front his beaver sate;

So broad, it hit his chin;

For why? he deemed no man his mate,

And fear'd to tan his skin.

With Spanish wool he dy'd his cheek,
With essence oil'd his hair;

No vixen civet cat so sweet,
Nor could so scratch and tear.

Right tall he made himself to show,
Though made full short by God: