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

Then lords and lordings, 'fquires 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'Urfy may,
John Dunton, Steel, or any one:

If juftice Philips' coftive head
Some frigid rhymes disburses;
They fhall like Perfian tales be read,
And glad both babes and nurses.

Let Warwick's mufe with Asb---t join,
And Oxel's with lord Hervey's,
Tickell and Addison combine,

And Pope tranflate with Jervis.

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

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

Ye

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

you

Now, Tonfon, lift thy forces all,

Review them, and tell noses:
For to poor Ovid shall befal
A ftrange metamorphofis;

A metamorphofis more strange
Than all his books can vapour

"To what, (quoth 'fquire) fhall Ovid change?"

Quoth Sandys, To waste paper.

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* UM BR A.

LOSE to the beft-known author
Umbra fits,

The conftant index to all Button's wits.
Who's here? cries Umbra: only Johnson
Oh!

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

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Then up comes Steele: he turns upon his heel,
And in a moment faftens upon Steele;
But cries as foon, dear Dick, I must be gone,
For, if I know his tread, here's Addifon.
Says Addison to Steele, 'tis time to go :
Pope to the closet steps afide with Rowe.
Poor Umbra, left in this abandon'd pickle,
E'en fits him down, and writes to honeft
Tickell.

Fool! 'tis in vain from wit to wit to roam; Know, fenfe like charity begins at home.

DUKE UPON DUKE.

то

An excellent new Ballad.

To the Tune of Chevy-Chace.

O lordings proud I tune my lay, Who feaft in bow'r or hall: Though dukes they be, to dukes I fay, That pride will have a fall.

Now, that this fame it is right footh,
Full plainly doth appear,

From what befel John duke of Guife,
And Nic of Lancastere.

When Richard Coeur-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 cuffd, and tweak'd, and trod
His foes, and friends befide.

Firm on his front his beaver fate;

So broad, it hid his chin;

For why? he deem'd no man

And fear'd to tan his fkin,

his

mate,

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

No vixen civet-cat fo fweet,
Nor could fo fcratch and tear.

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Right tall he made himself to show,
Though made full short by God:
And, when all other dukes did bow,
This duke did only nod.

Yet courteous, blithe, and debonnair
To Guife's duke was he:
Was ever such a loving pair?
How could they difagree?

Oh, thus it was: he lov'd him dear,
And caft how to requite him;
And, having no friend left but this,
He deem'd it meet to fight him.

Forthwith he drench'd his defp'rate quill,
And thus he did indite:

"This eve at whisk ourself will play,
"Sir duke! be here to night."

Ah no! ah no! the guileless Guife
Demurely did reply ;

I cannot go, nor yet can ftand,
So fore the gout have I.

The duke in wrath call'd for his steeds,
And fiercely drove them on;

Lord! lord! how rattled then thy ftones, O kingly Kensington !

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