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Chanc'd with a touch of just the tip
To hurt your lady-lapdog-ship:
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 stoop to pick up strings and sticks.
We country dogs love nobler sport,
And scorn the pranks of dogs at court.
Fie, naughty Fop! where'er you come,
To fart and piss about the room,
To lay your head in ev'ry lap,
And, when they think not of you-snap.
The worst that envy or that spite
E'er said of me, is, I can bite;
That idle gipsies, rogues in rags,
Who poke at me, can make no brags.;
And that, to touse such things as flutter,
To honest Bounce is bread and butter.
While you and ev'ry courtly fop,
Fawn on the devil for a chop,
I've the humanity to hate
A butcher, though he brings me meat;
And, let me tell you, have a nose
(Whatever stinking Fops suppose,)
That under cloth of gold or tissue
Can smell a plaster or an issue.
Your pilf'ring lord, with simple pride,
May wear a picklock at his side;
My master wants no key of state,
For Bounce can keep his house and gate.
When all such dogs have had their days, As knavish Pams, and fawning Trays; When pamper'd Cupids, beastly Venis, And motley, squinting Harlequinis",
* Alii legunt Harvequinis.
Shall lick no more their ladies br-,
But die of looseness, claps, or itch;
Fair. Thames, from either echoing shore,
Shall hear and dread my manly roar.
See Bounce, like Berecynthia crown'd
With thundring offspring all around;
Beneath, beside me, and at top,
A hundred sons, and not one fop!
Before my children set your beef,
Not one true Bounce will be a thief!
Not one without permission feed
(Though some of J-n's hungry breed :)
But, whatsoe'er the father's race,
From me they suck a little grace:
While your fine whelps learn all to steal,
Bred up by hand on chick and real.
My eldest born resides not far,
Where shines great Strafford's glittering star:
My second (child of fortune!) waits
At Burlington's Palladian gates :
A third majestically stalks
(Happiest of dogs!) in Cobham's walks:
One ushers friends to Bathurst's door;
One fawns, at Oxford's, on the poor.
Nobles, whom arms or arts adorn,
Wait for my infants yet unborn.
None but a peer of wit and grace
Can hope a puppy of my race.
And, o would fate the bliss decree.
To mine (a bliss too great for me!)
That two my tallest sons might grace,
Attending each with stately pace,
Iulus' side, as erst Evander's *,
To keep off flatterers, spies and panders,
To let no noble slave come near
And scare 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 deserve to find.
Then Bounce ('tis all that Bouqce can crave)
her tail within the grave.
And though no doctors, whig or tory ones,
Except the sect of Pythagoreans,
Have immortality assign'd
To any beast but Dryden's hind *
Yet master Pope, whom Truth and Sense
Shall call their friend sonie ages hence,
Though now on loftier themes he sings,
Than to bestow a word on kings,
Has sworn by Styx, the poet's oath,
And dread of dogs and poets both,
Man and his works he'll soon renounce,
And roar in numbers worthy Bounce.
ON THE COUNTESS OF BURLINGTON
CUTTING PAPER. Pallas grew vap'rish once and odd;
She would not do the least right thing, Either for goddess or for god,
Nor work, nor play, nor paint, nor sing. Jove frown'd, and " Use (he cried) those eyes
“ So skilful, and those hands so taper; Do something exquisite and wise"
She bow'd, obey'd him, and cut paper.
"! A milk white hind, immortal and unchang'd."
Hind and Panther, ver. le
This vexing him who gave her birth,
Thought by all Heaven a burning shame; What does she next, but bids, on earth,
Her Burlington do just the same. Pallas, you give yourself strange airs ;
But sure you'll find it hard to spoil The sense and taste of one, that bears
The name of Saville and of Boyle. Alas! one bad example shown,
How quickly all the sex pursue ! See, madam, see the arts o'erthrown
Between John Overton and you !
ON A CERTAIN LADY AT COURT.
know the thing that's most uncommon,
(Envy be silent, and attend I) I know a reasonable woman,
Handsome and witty, yet a friend. Not warp'd by passion, aw'd by rumour,
Not grave thro' pride, or gay thro' folly; An equal mixture of good humour,
And sensible, soft melancholy. “ Has she no faults, then (Envy says) sir?"
Yes, she has one, I must aver ; When all the world conspires to praise her,
The woman's deaf, and does not hear.