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An epistle from a dog at Twickenham to a dog at court.

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thee, fweet fop, thefe lines I fend,
Who, tho' no spaniel, am a friend.
Tho' once my tail in wanton play
Now frifking this and then that way,
Chanc'd with a touch of just the tip
To hurt your lady-lap dog-fhip:

Yet thence to think I'd bite your head off!
Sure Bounce is one you never read of.

FOP! you can dance, and make a leg,
Can fetch and carry, cringe and beg,
And (what's the top of all your tricks)
Can ftoop to pick up ftrings and flicks.
We country-dogs love nobler fport,
And fcorn the pranks of dogs at court.
Fie, naughty Fop! where e'er you come,
To fart and pifs about the room,

To lay your head in ev'ry lap,

And, when they think not of you-fnap!
The worst that envy or that spite

E'er faid of me, is, I can bite;
That idle gypfies, rogues in rags,
Who poke at me, can make no brags ;
And that to towze fuch things as flutter,
To honeft Bounce is bread and butter.

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WHILE you, and ev'ry courtly fop,

Fawn on the devil for a chop,
I've the humanity to hate

A butcher, tho' he brings me meat;
And, let me tell you, have a nose,
(Whatever ftinking fops fuppofe),
That, under cloth of gold or tissue,
Can smell a plaifter, or an iffue.

YOUR pilf'ring lord with fimple pride
May wear a pick-lock at his fide;
My mafter wants no key of state,
For Bounce can keep his house and gate.

WHEN all fuch dogs have had their days,
As knavish Pams, and fawning Trays;
When pamper'd Cupids, beaftly Venis,
And motly, fquinting Harlequinis ",
Shall lick no more their ladies br
But die of loofenefs, claps, or itch;
Fair Thames from either echoing shore

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Shall hear and dread my manly roar.

SEE Bounce, like Berecynthia, crown'd

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With thund'ring offspring all around;

Beneath, befide me, and at top,
A hundred fons, and not one fop!

BEFORE MY children fet your beef,

Not one true Bounce will be a thief;
Not one without permiffion feed,
(Tho' fome of J-n's hungry breed):
But whatfoe'er the father's race,

From me they fuck a little grace:

While your fine whelps learn all to steal,
Bred up by hand on chick and veal.

* Alii legunt Harvequinis.

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My eldest born refides not far,

Where shines great Strafford's glittring ftar:

My fecond (child of fortune!) waits
At Burlington's Palladian gates:
A third majestically stalks

(Happiest of dogs !) in Cobham's walks:

One ushers friends to Bathurft's door;

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To keep off flatt'rers, spies, and panders,
To let no noble flave come near,

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And scarce Lord Fannys from his ear:
Then might a royal youth, and true,

Enjoy at least a friend

or two ;

A treasure which of royal kind

Few but himself deferve to find.

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THEN Bounce ('tis all that Bounce can crave)

Shall wag her tail within the grave.

* On the Countefs of BURLINGTON

cutting PAPER.

PALLAS grew vap'rish once and odd;

She would not do the leaft right thing,

Either for goddefs or for god,

Nor work, nor play, nor paint, nor fing.

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Jove frown'd, and " Ufe" (he cry'd) " those eyes
"So skilful, and those hands fo taper;
"Do fomething exquifite and wife".
She bow'd, obey'd him, and cut paper.

This vexing him who gave her birth,

Thought by all heav'n a burning fhame,
What does the next, but bids on earth
Her Burlington do juft the fame ?

Pallas, you give yourself strange airs;

But fure you'll find it hard to fpoil The fenfe and taste of one that bears The name of Savile and of Boyle.

Alas! one bad example shown,

How quickly all the fex purfue!
See, Madam! fee, the arts o'erthrown
Between John Overton and you.

I

* On a certain LADY at court.

Know the thing that's most uncommon,

(Envy, be filent, and attend!)

I know a reasonable woman,

Handsome and witty, yet a friend.

Not warp'd by paffion, aw'd by rumour!

Not grave thro' pride, or gay thro' folly;

And fenfible foft melancholy.

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An equal mixture of good humour,

"Has fhe no faults then," (Envy fays)" Sir !"

Yes, he has one, I'muft aver :

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When all the world confpires to praise her,

The woman's deaf, and does not hear.

To

To Dr DELANY, wtitten against him.

on the LIBELS

-Tanti tibi non fit opaci

Omnis arena Tagi.

Written in the year 1729.

As fome raw youth in country bred,

To arms by thirst of honour led,

When at a skirmith first he hears
The bullets whistling round his ears,
I Will duck his head afide, will start,
And feel a trembling at his heart;
Till 'fcaping oft without a wound
Leffens the terror of the found;
Fly bullets now as thick as hops,
He runs into a canon's chops:
An author thus who pants for fame,
Begins the world with fear and shame:
When firft in print you see him dread
Each pop.gun
levell'd at his head :
The lead yon critic's quill contains,
Is deftin'd to beat out his brains.
As if he heard loud thunders roll,
Cries, Lord, have mercy on his foul!

Concluding, that another fhot

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Will ftrike him dead upon the fpot.

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But, when with fquibbing, flashing, popping,

He cannot fee one creature dropping;

That, miffing fire, or miffing aim,

His life is fafe, I mean his fame;
The danger paft, takes heart of grace,
And looks a critic in the face.

THO' fplendor gives the fairest mark To poifon'd arrows from the dark,

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