Was forc'd to fend three miles for yest,
To brew her ale and raise her paste ;
Tell's ev'ry thing that you can think of:
How the cur'd Tommy of the chin-cough ;
What gave her brats and pigs the measles,
And how her doves were kill'd by weasles;
How Fowler howl'd, and what a fright
She had with dreams the other night.

But now, fince I have gone fo far on,
A word or two of * Lord Chief Baron;
And tell how little weight he fets
On all Whig papers and Gazettes ;
But for the politicks of † Pue,
Thinks every fyllable is true.

And fince he owns the King of Sweden
Is dead at last without evading;

Now all his hopes are in the Czar ;

66

Why Muscovy is not fo far; "Down the Black Sea and up the Streights, "And in a month he's at your gates: "Perhaps from what the packet brings, By Christmas we fhall fee ftrange things."

WHY fhould I tell of ponds and drains, What carps we met with for our pains; Of sparrows tam'd, and nuts innumerable, To choak the girls, and to confume a rabble?

But

Mr. ROCH FORT's father.

A Tory news-writer.

But you, who are a scholar, know
How tranfient all things are below;
How prone to change is human life;
Last night arriv'd * Clem and his wife-
This grand event hath broke our measures;
The reign began with cruel feizures;
The Dean muft with his quilt fupply
The bed, in which those tyrants ly :
Nim loft his wig-block, Dan his Jordan;
(My lady says she can't afford one),
George is half fear'd out of his wits,
For Clem gets all the tiny bits.
Henceforth expect a diff'rent furvey:
This house will foon turn topsy-turvey.
They talk of further alterations,

Which causes many speculations.

Upon the horrid PLOT discovered by Harlequin, the † Bishop of ROCHESTER'S French dog.

In a DIALOGUE between a WHIG and a TORY.

I

Written in the Year 1722.

Afk'd a Whig the other night,

How came this wicked plot to light:

He answer'd that a dog of late

Inform'd a Minifter of State.

Said

tried by the Lords for

* Mr. CLEMENT BARRY. + Dr. ATTERBURY, who was a plot against the government, deprived of his bishoprick, banished his native country, and died in France.

Said I, from thence I nothing know;
For are not all informers fo?

A villain, who his friend betrays,
We style him by no other phrafe ;
And fo a perjur'd dog denotes
Porter, and PRENDERGAST, and oats.
And forty others I could name-

Whig. But

you must know this dog was lame.

Tory. A weighty argument indeed; Your evidence was lame. Proceed: Come help your lame dog o'er the ftyle.

Whig. Sir, you mistake me all this while: I mean a dog without a joke,

Can howl, and bark, but never spoke.

Tory. I'm ftill to feek, which dog you mean; Whether curr Plunket, or whelp Skean,

An English or an Irish hound;

Or t'other puppy that was drown'd,

Or Mafon, that abandon'd bitch:
Then pray be free, and tell me which;
For, ev'ry ftander-by was marking,
That all the noise they made was barking:
You pay them well; the dogs have got
Their dogs-heads in a porridge-pot :
And 'twas but juft; for wife men say,
That ev'ry dog muft have his day.
Dog Walpole laid a quart of nog on't,
He'd either make a bog or dog on't,

And

And look't fince he has got his wish,
As if he had thrown down a difh.
Yet this I dare foretel you from it,

He'll foon return to his own vomit.

Whig. Befides, this horrid plot was found By Neyno, after he was drown'd.

Tory. Why, then the proverb is not right, Since you can teach dead dogs to bite.

Whig. I prov'd my propofition full;
But, Jacobites are strangely dull.
Now, let me tell you plainly, Sir,
Our witness is a real curr,

A dog of spirit for his years,

Has twice two legs, two hanging ears; .
His name is Harlequin, I wot,

And that's a name in ev'ry plot :
Refolv'd to fave the British nation,
Though French by birth and education :
His correfpondence plainly dated,
Was all decypher'd and translated.
His answers were exceeding pretty
Before the fecret wife committee.
Confefs'd as plain, as he could bark :
Then with his fore-foot fet his mark.

Tory. Then all this while have I been bubbled; I thought it was a dog in doublet: The matter now no longer sticks; For statesmen never want dog-tricks.

But,

But, fince it was a real curr,
And not a dog in metaphor,

I give you joy of the report,

That he's to have a place at ct.

Whig. Yes, and a place he will grow rich in, A turn-fpit in the Royal kitchen.

Sir, to be plain, I tell you what ;
We had occafion for a plot;

And, when we found the dog begin it,
We guess'd the Bishop's foot was in it.

Tory. I own it was a dang`rous project,
And you have prov'd it by dog-logick.
Sure fuch intelligence between

A dog and Bishop ne'er was feen,
Till you began to change the breed ;
Your Bishops all are dogs indeed.

MARÍ