Shall David as Uriah flay him?
Or dextrous Deb'rah Siferah him ?
Or fhall Eliza lay a plot

To treat him like her fifter Scot?
Shall William dub his better end *?
Or Marlb'rough ferve him like a friend?
No, none of thefe---heav'n fpare his life!
But fend him, honeft Job, thy wife.

Dr. SWIFT to Mr. POPE, While he was writing the Dunciad.

POPE has the talent well to speak,

But not to reach the ear;

His loudeft voice is low and weak,
The Dean too deaf to hear.

A while they on each other look,
Then diff'rent ftudies 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,
Himfelf can hardly read 'em.

* Kick him on the breech, not knight him on the shoulder.

Each

Each atom by fome other ftruck
All turns and motions tries:
Till in a lump together stuck,.
Behold a poem rise !

Yet to the Dean, his fhare allot;
He claims it by a canon;
That, without which a thing is not,
Is, caufa fine qua non.

Thus,* Pope, in vain you boast 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 fexton reafon'd well;
And justly half the merit claim'd,
Because he rang the bell.

*A polite turn is given to his letter to Dr. Sheridan this incident by Mr. Pope in Vol. XII. Letter 32.

BOUNCE

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

O thee, fweet Fop, these lines I

то To fend,

Who, though no spaniel, am a friend.
Though once my tail, in wanton play
Now frifking this and then that way,
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 ftoop to pick up firings 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---snap ! The worst that envy, or that fpite

E'er faid of me, is, I can bite;

That idle gypfies, rogues in rags,

Who poke at me, can make no brags;

And

And that to towze fuch things as flutter To honeft 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 nofe,
(Whatever stinking fops fuppofe)
That under cloth of gold or tiffue
Can smell a plaister, or an iffue.

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

When all fuch dogs have had their days, As knavish Pams, and fawning Trays; When pamper'd Cupids, beastly Venis, And motly, fquinting Harlequinis Shall lick no more their ladies br---, But die of loosenefs, claps, or itch; Fair Thames from either echoing fhore Shall hear and dread my manly roar.

* Alii legunt Haruequinis,

T

See

See Bounce, like Berecynthia, crown'd 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, (Though 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 fteal, Bred up by hand on chick and veal.

My eldest-born refides not far, Where shines great Strafford's glitt'ring ftar :

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

(Happieft of dogs!). in Cobham's walks: One ufhers 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