OR, A

Proper New BALLAD

ON THE

New OVID's METAMORPHOSES,

As it was intended to be translated by Persons of

YE

Quality.

E lords and commons, men of wit
And pleasure about town,

Read this, e're you tranflate one bit
Of books of high renown.

Beware of Latin authors all!.

Nor think your verses fterling,
Though 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 japan'd, avails
To writing of good fenfe.

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

In woful wife did sore affright
A wit and courtly 'squire.

Rare

Rare imp of Phoebus, hopeful youth!

Like puppy tame, that uses

To fetch and carry in his mouth
The works of all the muses.

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,
Though Qvid lay without.

Now, as he scratch'd to fetch up thought,
Forth popp'd the fprite fo thin,
And from the key-hole bolted out
All upright as a pin.

With whifkers, band, and pantaloon,
And ruff compos'd moft duly,
This 'fquire he dropp'd his pen full foon,
While as the light burnt bluely.

Ho! mafter Sam, quoth Sandys' fprite,
Write on, nor let me scare ye;
Forfooth, if rhymes fall not in right,
To Budgel feek, or Carey.

I hear

I hear the beat of Jacob's drums,
Poor Ovid finds no quarter!
See first the merry P comes
In hafte without his garter.

Then lords and lordings, 'fquires and knights,
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,
Tom Burnet or Tom D'Urfy may,
John Dunton, Steel, or any one.

If justice Philips' costive head
Some frigid rhymes disburses;
They fhall like Perfian tales be read,
And glad both babes and nurses.

Let Warwick's mufe with Ab-t join,
And Ozel's with lord Hervey's,
Tickell and Addison combine,

And Pope tranflate with Jervis.

L- himself, that lively lord,
Who bows to every lady,

Shall join with Fin one accord,
And be like Tate and Brady.

Ye

Ye ladies too, draw forth your pen;
I pray, where can the hurt lie?
Since you have brains as well as men,
As witness lady Wortley.

Now, Tonfon, lift thy forces all,

Review them and tell nofes:
For to poor Ovid shall befal
A ftrange metamorphofis ;

A metamorphofis more strange Than all his books can vapour "To what, (quoth 'fquire) fhall Ovid change?"

Quoth Sandys, To waste paper.

* UM BR A.

CLOSE to the beft-known author

Umbra fits,

The constant index to all Button's wits. Who's bere? cries Umbra: only Johnson --Ob!

Your flave, and exit; but returns with Rowe: Dear Rowe, let's fit and talk of tragedies: Ere long Pope enters, and to Pope he flies.

VOL. VI.

I

Then

Thenupcomes Steele: he turns upon his heel, And in a moment faftens upon Steele; But cries as foon, dear Dick, I must be gone, For, if I know his tread, here's Addifon. Says Addifon to Steele, 'tis time to go: Pope to the clofet fteps afide with Rowe. 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; Know, fenfe like charity begins at home.

DUKE UPON DUKE.

T°

An excellent new Ballad.

To the Tune of Chevy-Chace.

O lordings proud I tune my lay,
Who feaft in bow'r or hall :
Though dukes they be, to dukes I fay,
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