Shall join with F in one Accord, And be like Tate and Brady. Ye Ladies too draw forth your Pen, Now, Tonfon, lift thy Forces all, Review them, and tell Nofes; For to poor Ovid shall befal A Metamorphofis more strange Than all his Books can vapour; "To what, (quoth 'Squire) fhall Ovid change?” Quoth Sandys: To wafte Paper. * UMBRA. LOSE to the best known Author, Umbra fits, CL The conftant Index to all Button's Wits. Who's here? cries Umbra: Only Johnson”—Oh ! Then Then up comes Steele; he turns upon his Heel, DUKE upon DUKE. An excellent new Ballad. To the Tune of Chevy-Chase. O Lordings proud I tane my Lay, T° Who feaft in Bower 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 Lancaßere. When When Richard Caur-de-Lyon reign'd, A Word and Blow was then enough, (Such Honour did them prick) If but turn'd you your Check, a Cuff, And if your A-se, a Kick. Look in their Face, they tweak'd your At ev'ry Turn fell to't; Nofe, Toes; Come near, they trod upon your Of thefe, the Duke of Lancastere He kick'd, and cuff'd, and tweak'd, and trod Firm on his Front his Beaver fate, For why he deem'd no Man his Mate, With Spanish Wool he dy'd his Cheek, Right Right tall he made himself to fhow, Yet courteous, blithe, and debonair, Oh, thus it was. He lov'd him dear, Forthwith he drench'd his defp'rate Quill; "This Eve at Whisk ourself will play, Ah no, ah no, the guilelefs Guife 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 rattl'd then thy Stones, All All in a Trice he rufh'd on Guife, Thruft out his Lady dear, He tweak'd his Nofe, trod on his Toes, Fate plays her old Dog Trick! Up leap'd Duke John, and knock'd him down, And fo down fell Duke Nic. Alas, oh Nic! Oh Nic. alas! As who should say, alas the Day, For on thee did he clap his Chair, And look'd, as if he ineant therein To do what was not fit. Up didft thou look, oh woeful Duke ! Thy Mouth yet durft not ope, Certes for fear, of finding there A Td instead of Trope. Lye there, thou Caitiff vile! quoth 'Guife, "No Sheet is here to fave thee: "The Cafément it is fhut likewife; Beneath my Feet I have thee. |