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himself, that lively lord,
Who bows to every lady,
Shall join with F in one accord,

And be like Tate and Brady.

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Ye ladies, too, draw forth your pen;

I pray, where can the hurt lie ?

have braids as well as men,
As witness Lady Wortley.

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A metamorphosis more strange

Than all his books can vapour---
** To what (quoth 'squire) shall Ovid change ?"

Quoth Sandys, “ To waste paper."


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,

comes Steele: he turns upon his heel, And in a moment fastens upon Steele;

“Dear Dick, I must be gone, For, if I know his tread, here's Addison.”


But cries as soon,

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.”



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.

* 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, 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. N.

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When Richard Cæur de Lion reigo'd,

(Which means a lion's heart)
Like him his barons rag'd and roar'd :

Each play'd a lion's part.

A word and blow was then enough:

Such honour did them prick;
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 friend's 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 tap his skin.

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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.

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Right tall be 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 dake 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, 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, ogrself 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 kiogly Kensington !

All in a trice he rush'd on Guise,

Thrust out his lady dear:
He tweak'd his nose, trod op his loes,

And sinote him on the ear.


But mark, low '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

To do-what was not fit.

Up didst thou look, O woful duke !

Thy mouth yet durst not ope, Certes for fear of finding there

At-d, instead of trope.

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"Lie there, thou caitiff vile!" quoth Guise ;

No shift is here to save thee : The casement it is shut likewise; Beneath


seet I have thee,

If thou hast ought to speak, speak out."

Then Lancastere did cry, “Know'st thou not me, nor yet thyself ?

Who thou, and who am I?

Know'st thou not me, who (God be prais'd !)

Have brawl'd and quarrell’d more, Than all the line of Lancastere,

That battled heretofore ?

lo senates fam'd for many a speech,

And (what some awe must give ye, Tho'laid thus low beneath thy breech)

Still of the council privy ;

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