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.
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!
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.
