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.

Right tall he 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 duke 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 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 rattled then thy stones,
O 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 him on the ear,

VOL. XXIV.

0

But mark, how 'midst of victory

Fate plays her oid 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
A t-d, instead of trope.

"Lie there, thou caitiff vile!" quoth Guise;
No shift is here to save thee:
The casement it is shut likewise;
Beneath my feet 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 inore,

Than all the line of Lancastere,
That battled heretofore?

In senates fam'd for many a speech,
And (what some awe must give ye,
Tho' laid trus low beneath thy breech)
Still of the council privy;

Still of the duchy chancellor;
Durante life, I have it;

And turn, as now thou dost on me,
Mine a-se on them that gave it."

But now the servants they rush'd in;
And duke Nic. up leap'd he:
" I will not cope against such odds,
But, Guise! I'll fight with thee :

To-morrow with thee will I fight.
Under the green wood tree:'
"No, not to morrow, but to-night,"
Quoth Guise, "I'll fight with thee."

And now the sun declining low
Bestreak'd with blood the skies;
When, with his sword at saddle bow,
Rode forth the valiant Guise.

Full gently pranc'd he o'er the lawn;
Oft roll'd his eyes around,
And from the stirrup stretch'd to find
Who was not to be found.

:

Long brandish'd he the blade in air,
Long look'd the field all o'er:
At length he spied the merry-men brown,
And eke the coach and four.

From out the boot bold Nicholas
Did wave his wand so white,
As pointing out the gloomy glade
Wherein he meant to fight.

All in that dreadful hour so calm
Was Lancastere to see,
As if he meant to take the air,
Or only take a fee:

And so he did for to New Court
His rolling wheels did run:
Not that he shuun'd the doubtful strife;
But bus'hess must be done.

Back in the dark, by Brompton park,
He turn'd up through the Gore;
So slunk to Cambden house so high,
All in his coach and four.

Mean while duke Guise did fret and fume,
A sight it was to see,
Benumb'd beneath the evening dew
Under the greenwood tree.

Then, wet and weary, home he far'd,
Sore mutt'ring all the way,
"The day I meet him, Nic. shall rue
The cudgel of that day.

Mean time on every pissing-post
Paste we this recreant's name,
So that each passer by shall read
And piss against the same."

Now God preserve our gracious king,
And grant his nobles all
May learn this lesson from duke Nic
That "pride will have a fall."

FRAGMENT OF A SATIRE *.

Ir meagre Gildon draws his venal quill,
I wish the man a dinner, and sit still:
If dreadful Dennis raves in furious fret,
I'll answer Dennis, when I am in debt.
'Tis hunger, and not malice, makes them print;
And wholl wage war with Bedlam or the Mint †.

Should some more sober criticks come abroad,

If wrong, I smile; if right, I kiss the rod.
Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence;
And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense.
Commas and points they set exactly right;
And twere a sin to rob them of their mite:
Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel grac'd those ribalds,
From slashing Bentley ‡ down to piddling Tibalds,

* Thus was this Poem originally entitled, in the "Miscellanies," published by Swift and Pope in 1727. It was afterward inserted, 1734-5, with many material alterations, in Mr. Pope's Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot, being the Prologue to the Satires. N.

† The unexpected turn in the second line of each of these three couplets, contains as cutting and bitter strokes of satire as, perhaps, can be written. It is with difficulty we can forgive our Author for upbraiding these wretched scribblers for their poverty and distresses, if we do not keep in our minds the grossly abusive pamphlets they published; and, even allowing this circumstance, we ought to separate rancour from reproof:

"Cur tam crudeles optavit sumere pœnas?"

Dr. WARTON.

‡ This great man, with all his faults, deserved to be put into better company. WARBURTON.

Swift imbibed from sir William Temple, and Pope from Swift, an inveterate and unreasonable aversion and contempt for Bentley; but I have been informed, that there was still an additional cause.