Spaniards and French abuse to the world's end;
But spare old England, left you hurt a friend.
If any fool is by our fatire bit,

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Let him hifs loud, to fhew you all he's hit.
Poets make characters, as salesmen cloaths :
We take no measure of your fops and beaus;
But here all fizes and all fhapes you meet,
And fit yourselves, like chaps in Monmouth-ftreet.
Gallants! look here: this fool's cap* has an air
Goodly and fmart, with ears of Iffachar.

Let no one fool ingrofs it, or confine

A common bleffing! now 'tis yours, now mine.
But poets in all ages had the care

To keep this cap, for such as will, to wear.
Our author has it now, (for ev'ry wit
Of course refign'd it to the next that writ ;)
And thus upon the ftage 'tis fairly thrown; t
Let him that takes it, wear it as his own.

*SANDYS'S

O R,

GHOST:

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A proper new BALLAD on the new OVID'S METAMORPHOSES, as it was intended to be tranflated by Persons of Quality.

E Lords and Commons, men of wit

YE

And pleasure about town,

Read this, ere you tranflate one bit

Of books of high renown.

Beware

Shews a cap with ears. † Flings down the cap, and exit.

Beware of Latin authors all!

Nor think your verses Sterling, Tho' with a golden pen you fcrawl,

And fcribble in a berlin :

For not the desk with filver nails,
Nor bureau of expence,

Nor ftandifh well japann'd, avails
To writing of good fenfe.

Hear how a ghost in dead of night,
With faucer eyes of fire,

In woful wife did fore affright

A wit and courtly 'fquire.

Rare imp of Phoebus, hopeful youth!)
Like puppy tame, that uses

To fetch and carry in his mouth

The works of all the mufes.

Ah! why did he write poetry,.
That hereto was fo civil;
And fell his foul for vanity
To rhyming and the devil?

A defk he had of curious work,

With glitt'ring ftuds about,

Within the fame did Sandys lurk,

Tho' Ovid lay without.

Now, as he scratch'd to fetch up thought,
Forth popp'd the sprite fo thin,

And from the key-hole bolted out
'All upright as a pin.

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With whiskers, band, and pantaloon,
And ruff compos'd moft duly,

This 'fquire he dropp'd his pen full foon,
While as the light burnt bluely.

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Ho! Mafter Sam, quoth Sandys' sprite,
Write on, nor let me fcare ye;

For footh, if rhymes fall not in right,
To Budgel feek, or Carey.

I hear the beat of Jacob's drums,
Poor Ovid finds no quarter!

See first the merry P

In hafte without his garter.

comes

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Then lords and lordlings, 'fquires and knights, 45

Wits, witlings, prigs, and peers:

Garth at St. James's and at White's,
Beats up for volunteers.

What Fenton will not do, nor Gay,

Nor Congreve, Rowe, nor Stanyan,

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Tom Burnet or Tom D'Urfy may,
John Dunton, Steele, or any one.

If Juftice Philips' coftive head

Some frigid rhymes difburfes;

They fball like Perfian Tales be read,
And glad both babes and nurses.

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Let Warwick's mufe with Afh-t join,
And Ozel's with Lord Hervey's,

Tickel and Addifon combine,

And Pope tranflate with Jervis.

L

60.

L-himself, that lively lord,
Who bows to ev'ry lady,

Shall join with F

in one accord,

And be like Tate and Brady.

Ye ladies, too, draw forth your pen ;

I

pray Since you have brains as well as men,

where can the hurt lie?

As witnefs Lady Wortley.

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Now, Tonfon, lift thy forces all,

Review them, and tell noses :

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For to poor Ovid fhall befal

A ftrange metamorphofis :

A metamorphofis more ftrange

Than all his books can vapour

"To what" (quoth 'fquire)" shall Ovid change?” 75 Quoth Sandys, To waste paper.

Lose to the best-known author Umbra fits,

CLO

The conftant index to all Button's wits.

Who's here? cries Umbra: only Johnfon-Ob!

Your flave, and exit; but returns with Rowe :

Dear Rowe, let's fit and talk of tragedies :

Erelong Pope enters, and to Pope he flies.
'Then up comes Steele : he turns upon his heel,
And in a moment fastens upon Steele ;
But cries as foon, Dear Dick, I must be gone;
For, if I know his tread, here's Addifon.
Says Addison to Steele, 'Tis time to go:
Pope to the clofet fteps afide with Rowe,

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Poor

Poor Umbra, left in this abandon'd pickle,
E'en fits him down, and writes to honeft Tickell.
Fool! 'tis in vain from wit to wit to roam; 15
Know, fenfe, like charity, begins at home.

* DUKE

UPON

DUKE.

An excellent NEW BALLAD.

To the Tune of Chevy-Chace.

To lordlings proud I tune my lay,

Who feast in bow'r or hall:

Tho' Dukes they be, to Dukes I say,
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 Lancastere.

When Richard Coeur-de-Lion reign'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;

If

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.

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