Lhimself, that lively lord, Shall join with F in one accord, And be like Tate and Brady. Ye ladies, too, draw forth your pen; Now, Tonson, list thy forces all, Review them and tell noses: For to poor Ovid shall befal A metamorphosis more strange Than all his books can vapour "To what (quoth 'squire) shall Ovid change?" UMBRA. CLOSE to the best known author UMBRA sits, 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:" DUKE UPON DUKE. AN EXCELLENT NEW BALLAD.* To the Tune of "Chevy Chace." To lordlings proud I tune my lay, Now, that this same it is right sooth, From what befel John duke of Guise, And Nic. of Lancastere. * This very humorous 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, 171f, 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. N. When Richard Cœur de Lion reign'd, Like him his barons rag'd and roar'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; At ev'ry turn fell to't; 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, With Spanish wool he dy'd his cheek, No vixen civet cat so sweet, Right tall he made himself to show, Yet courteous, blithe, and debonnair, 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 Lord! Lord! how rattled then thy stones. 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! As who should say, alas the day When John of Guise shall maul thee! For on thee did he clap his chair, And look'd as if he meant therein Up didst thou look, O woful duke! "Lie there, thou caitiff vile!" quoth Guise; The casement it is shut likewise; If thou hast ought to speak, speak out." "Know'st thou not me, nor yet thyself? Who thou, and who am I? Know'st thou not me, who (God be prais'd!) Than all the line of Lancastere, In senates fam'd for many a speech, |