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No, none of thefe

Heav'n fpare his Life!

But fend him, honeft Job, thy Wife.!!!

Dr. Sw to Mr. P.

to Mr. PE,

While he was writing the Dunciad.

OPE has the Talent well to speak,

POPE

But not to reach the Ear;

His loudest Voice is low and weak,
The Dean too deaf to hear.

A while they on each other look,
Then diff'rent Studies chufe,
The Dean fits plodding on a Book,
Pope walks, and courts the Mufe,

Now Backs of Letters, though defign'd
For those who more will need 'em,
Are fill'd with Hints, and interlin'd,
Himself can hardly read 'em.

Each Atom by fome other struck,
All Turns and Motion tries;
Till in a Lump together fuck,
Behold a Poem rife!

Yet

Yot to the Dean his Share allot;

He claims it by a Canon;
That, without which a Thing is not
Is, caufa fine quâ non.

ד

Thus, Pope, in vain you boaft your Wit;

For, had our deaf Divine

Been for your Converfation fit,

You had not writ a Line.

Of Prelate thus, for preaching fam'd,
The Sexton reafon'd well,
And justly half the Merit claim'd
Because he rang the Bell.

[*

BOUNCE to FOP,

1

An Epistle from a Dog at Twickenham to a Dog at Court,

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O thee fweet Fop, thefe Lines I fend, who, tho' no Spaniel, am a Friend. Tho', once my Tail in wanton Play, Now friking this and then that way,

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Chanc'd, with a Touch of juft 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 stoop to pick up Strings and Sticks.
We Country Dogs love nobler Sport,
And scorn the Pranks of Dogs at Court.
Fye, naughty Fop! where-e'er you come
To ft and p-fs about the Room,
To lay your Head in every Lap,
And, when they think not of you (nap!
The worst that Envy, or that Spite
E'er faid of me, is, I can bite:

That idle Gypfies, Rogues in Rags,

T

Who poke at me, can make no Brags;
Who poke at me

3

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And that to towze fuch Things as flutter,
To honest, bounce is Bread and Butter.

While you, and every 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 Nofe,
(Whatever ftinking Fops fuppofe)
That under Cloth of Gold or Tiffue,
Can fmell a Plaister, or an Iffue.

Your

Your pilf'ring Lord, with fimple Pride,
May wear a Pick-lock at his Side;
My Mafter wants no Key of State,"
For Bounce can keep his House and Gate.

When all fuch Dogs have had their Days;
As knavifh Pams, and fawning Trays
When pamper'd Cupids, beastly Ven's,
And motly, fquinting Harlequini's,
Shall lick no more their Lady's Br
But die of Looseness, Claps, or Itch:
Fair Thames from either ecchoing Shore
Shall hear and dread my manly Roar.

See Bounce, like Berecynthia, drown'd
With thund'ring Offspring all around,
Beneath, befide me, ánd a top,
A hundred Sons! 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 Jn'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 Vcal..

Alii legunt Harvequins.

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My

My Eldeft-born resides not far,

Where shines great Strafford's glittering Star :
My fecond (Child of Fortune!) waits
At Burlington's Palladian Gates:
A third majestically stalks

(Happiest of Dogs !) in Cobbam's Walks:
One ushers Friends to Batburft'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! wou'd Fate the Bliss decree
To mine (a Blifs too great for me) AND
That two, my tallest Sons, might grace.
Attending each with ftately Pace,

Iulus's Side, as erst Evander's,

*

To keep off Flatt'rers, Spies, and Panders
To let no noble Slave come near,
And feare 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.

Virg. Æn. 8.

I

Then

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