And forty others I could name

Whig. But


must know this Dog was lame.

Tory, A weighty Argument indeed ; Your Evidence was lame. Proceed : Come, help your lame Dog o'er the Stile.

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Wbig. Sir, you mistake me all this while :
I mean a Dog, without a Joke,
Can howl, and bark, but never spoke.

Tory. I'm still to seek, 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 Mason, that abandon’d Bitch :
Then pray be free, and tell me which : :
For, ev'ry Stander-by was marking,
That all the Noise they made was Barking :
You pay them well; the Dog's have got
Their Dogs-beads in a Porridge-pot :
And 'twas but just; for, wise Men fay,
That, every Dog must have his Day.
Dog W-lp-le laid a Quart of Nog on't,
He'd either make a Hog or Dog on't,
And look’t since he has got his Wilh,
As if he had thrown down a Disk.
Yet, this I dare foretel you from it,
He'll foon return to bis own Vomit.

Whig. Besides, 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 Proposition 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 :
Resolv'd to save the British Nation,
Though French by Birth and Education :
His Correspondence plainly dated,
Was all decypherd, and translated.
His Answers were exceeding pretty
Before the secret wise Committee;
Confess't as plain, as he could bark ;
And 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, since 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-spit in the Kitchen. Sir, to be plain, I tell you what ; We had Occasion for a Plot And, when we found the Dog begin it, We guess'd the Bishop's Foot was in it.

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Tory, I own it was a dang’rous Project ;

have prov'd it by Dog-Logick.
Sure such Intelligence between
A Dog and Bishop ne'er was seen,
Till you began to change the Breed ;
Your B-ps all are Dogs indeed.

MARY the Cook-Maid's Letter to


Written in the Year 1723.


ELL; if ever I saw such another Man

since my Mother bound my Head, You a Gentleman! marry come up, I wonder where you were bred?

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I am sure such Words does not become a Man of

your Cloth,

I would not give such Language to a Dog, faith

and troth,
Yes; you calld my Master a Knave : Fie, Mr.

Sheridan, 'tis a Shame
For a Parson, who shou'd know better Things, to

come out with such a Name.
Knave in your Teeth, Mr. Sheridan, 'cis both a

Shame and a Sin,
And the Dean, my Master, is an honefter Man

than you and all your Kin:
He has more Goodness in his little Finger, than

you have in your whole Body, My Master is a parsonable Man, and not a spindle

shank'd Hoddy-doddy.
And now whereby I find you would fain make an

Because my Master, one Day in Anger, callid you

Which, and I am sure, I have been his Servant

four Years since Otober,
And he never call'd me worse than Sweet-heart,

drunk or sober : Not that I know his Reverence was ever concern'd

to my Knowledge, Tho' you and your Come-rogues keep him out fo

late in your wicked College.


You say you will eat Grass on his Grave; a Chri

ftian eat Grass! Whereby you now confess your self to be a Goose

or an Ass : But that's as much as to say, that my Master should

die before ye ; Well, well, that's as God pleases, and I don't be

lieve that's a true Story, And so say I told you so; and you may go


niy Master ; what care I? And I don't care who knows it, 'tis all one to

Mary. Every Body knows, that I love to tell Truth, and

shame the Devil ; I am but a poor Servant, but I think gentle Folks

should be more civil. Besides, you found Fault with our Vittles one Day

that you was here, I remember it was upon a Tuesday, of all Days in

the Year. And Saunders the Man fays, you are always jefting

and mocking, Mary, said he, (one Day, as I was mending my

Master's Stocking,) My Master is so fond of that Minifter, that keeps

the School ; I thought my Master a wise Man, but that Man

makes him a Fool.


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