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 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: "

worthy

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.

*Cbarles Johnson, a second rate dramatist, and great frequent

er 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 "Chery 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 eminence, at the time Chancellor of the Duchy Court of Lancas.. ter, 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:

And when all other Dukes did bow,
This Duke did only nod.

Yet courteous, blithe, and, debonair,
To Guise's Duke was he:
Was ever such a loving pair?
How could they disagree?

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

Forthwith he drench'd his desp'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 Guise. Demurely did reply;

"I cannot go nor yet can stand, So sore the gout have I."

The Duke in wrath call'd for his steeds,

And fiercely drove them on;

Lord! Lord! how rattled then thy stones,

O kingly Kensington!

All on a trice he rush'd on Guise,

Thrust out his lady dear:

He tweak'd his nose, trod on his toes,

And smote him on the ear.

But mark, how 'midst of victory

Fate plays her old dog-trick!

Up leap'd Duke John, and knock'd him down, And so down fell Duke Nic.

Alas, O Nic! O Nic alas!

Right did thy gossip call thee:
As who should say, alas the day
When John of Guise shall maul thee!

For on thee did he clap his chair,
And on that chair did sit;

And look'd as if he meant therein

To do what was not fit.

Up didst thou look, O woful Duke!
Thy mouth yet durst not ope,
Certes for fear of finding there
A t-d, instead of trope.

"Lie there, thou caitiff vile!" quoth Guise;
No shift is here to save thee:
The casement it is shut likewise;
Beneath my feet I have thee.

If thou hast aught to speak, speak out."
Then Lancastere did cry,
"Know'st thou not me, nor yet thyself?

Who thou, and who am I?

Know'st thou not me, who (God be prais❜d!)
Have brawl'd and quarrell'd more,
Than all the line of Lancastere,

That battled heretofore?

In senates fam'd for many a speech,
And (what some awe must give ye,
Tho' laid thus low beneath thy breech)
Still of the council privy;

Still of the Duchy Chancellor;
Durante life, I have it;