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Shall join with F in one Accord,

And be like Tate and Brady.

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Ye Ladies too draw forth

your Pen,

where can the Hurt lie? Since you have Brains as well as Men,

As witnefs Lady Wy.

Now, Tonjon, lift thy Forces all,

Review them, and tell Noses ; For to poor Ovid shall befal

A strange Metamorphos.

A Metamorpbois more ftrange

Than all his Books can vapour ; “ To what, (quoth 'Squire) shall Ovid change?"

Quoth Sandys : To soafte Paper.

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YLOSE to the best known Author, Umbra fits,

The constant Index to all Button's Wits... Who's here? cries Umbra: Only Fobnfon"-Ob! Your Slave, and exit ; but returns with Rowe, Dear Rowe, lets

fit and talk of Tragedies : Not long, Pope enters, and to Pope he flies,


Then up comes Steele ; he turns upon his Heel,
And in a Moment faftens upon

But cries as foon, Dear Dick, I must be gone,
For, if I know bis 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 fits him down, and writes to honest I

Fool! 'tis in vain from Wit to Wit to roam i
Know Sense, like Charity, begins at Home.

DUKE upon DUKE. An ex

cellent new Ballad.

To the Tune of Chevy-Chase.

I .

O Lordings proud [ tune my Lay,

Who feast in Bower or Hall :
Though Dukes they be, to Dukes I lay's

That Pride will have a Fall,

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Now, that this fame it is right footh,

Full plainly doth appear,
From what befel John Duke of Guije,

And Nic. of Lancafere.


When Richard Ceur-de-Lyon reign'd,

(Which mcans a Lion's Heart) Like him his Barons rag'd and roard,

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 Check, a Cufi, 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 fate,

So broad, it hid his Chin;
For why ? he deer'd no Man his Mate,

And fear'd to tan his Skin.

With Spanish Wool he dy'd his Cheek,

With Essence oild his Hair; No Vixen Civet-Cat so sweet,

Nor could fo scratch and tear.


Right tall he made himself to show,

Though made full fhort 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 never 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 rattl'd then thy Srones,

Oh 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 hiin 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, oh Nic! Oh Nic. alas !

Right did thy Gosip call thee : As who should say, alas the Day,

When John of Guise shall maul thee.

For on thee did le clap his Chair,

And on that Chair did fit ;
And look'd, as if he ineant therein

To do what was not fit,

Up didst 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 Guise,

6 No Sheet is here to save thee : « The Casément it is shut likewise ;

• Bencath my Feet I have thee.

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