Ye ladies, too, draw forth your pen; Now, Tonson, list thy forces all, Review them and tell noses: 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, "Who's here?" cries Umbra: " worthy only Johnson" * Your slave," and exit; but returns with Rowe: *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, But cries as soon, "Dear Dick, I must be gone, DUKE UPON DUKE. AN EXCELLENT NEW BALLAD. [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, Though dukes they be, to dukes I say, Now, that this same it is right sooth, From what befel John Duke of Guise, When Richard Cœur de Lion reign'd, A word and blow was then enough: If you but turn'd your cheek, a cuff; Look in their face, they tweak'd your nose; Come near, they trod upon your toes; Of these the Duke of Lancastere He kick'd, and cuff'd, and tweak'd, and trod 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, No vixen civet cat so sweet, Right tall he made himself to show, And when all other Dukes did bow, Yet courteous, blithe, and, debonair, Oh, thus it was: he lov'd him dear, Forthwith he drench'd his desp'rate quill. "This eve at whisk ourself will play, "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: For on thee did he clap his chair, And look'd as if he meant therein To do what was not fit. Up didst thou look, O woful Duke! "Lie there, thou caitiff vile!" quoth Guise; If thou hast aught to speak, speak out." Who thou, and who am I? Know'st thou not me, who (God be prais❜d!) That battled heretofore? In senates fam'd for many a speech, Still of the Duchy Chancellor; |