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'Urfy may, John Dunton, Steel, 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 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 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 me

A metamorphosis more strange

Than all his books can vapour

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

UMBRA.

CLOSE to the best known author UMBRA sits,
The constant index to all Button's wits.

"Who's here?" cries UMBRA: "only Johnson"-"O!
"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.
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

DUKE UPON DUKE.

AN EXCELLENT NEW BALLAD*.

TO THE TUNE OF CHEVY-CHACE.

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.

* This very humourous ballad was occasioned by a quarrel between Nicholas lord Lechmere and sir John Guise, bart.Lord Lechmere had been representative in parliament for Cockermouth, and one of the managers against Sacheverell; he was an eminent lawyer, a staunch whig, and, having been removed from his office of queen's counsel in June 1711, was a constant opposer of her ministry. He was appointed solicitor general in Oct. 1714; chancellor of the duchy court of Lancaster for life in June 1717; attorney-general in March 1717-18; and was created baron Lechmere of Evesham, Sept. 8, 1721 dying June 18, 1727, the title became extinct.-Sir John Guise, who represented the county of Gloucester in several parliaments, died Nov. 6, 1732.

A word

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 debonnair,
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

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 in 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

Up

To do what was not fit.