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 Stile.

;

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 İrish 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 Dogs have got
Their Dogs-heads in a Porridge-pot:
And 'twas but juft; for, wise Men say,
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 fince he has got his Wish,
As if he had thrown down a Dish.
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 Correspondence plainly dated,
Was all decypher'd, and tranflated.
His Anfwers were exceeding pretty
Before the fecret wife Committee;
Confefs'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, 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 R-1 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 B-ps all are Dogs indeed.

MARY the Cook-Maid's Letter to

Doctor SHERIDAN.

Written in the Year 1723.

WELL; if ever I faw fuch another Man

fince my Mother bound my Head,

You a Gentleman! marry come up, I wonder where

you were bred?

I am fure fuch Words does not become a Man of your Cloth,

I would not give fuch Language to a Dog, faith and troth,

Yes; you call'd my Mafter a Knave: Fie, Mr. Sheridan, 'tis a Shame

For a Parfon, who fhou'd know better Things, to come out with such a Name.

Knave in your Teeth, Mr. Sheridan, 'tis both a Shame and a Sin,

And the Dean, my Mafter, 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 parfonable Man, and not a fpindlefhank'd Hoddy-doddy.

And now whereby I find you would fain make an Excufe,

Because my Mafter, one Day in Anger, call'd you

Goose.

Which, and I am fure, I have been his Servant four Years fince October,

And he never call'd me worse than Sweet-heart, drunk or fober:

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

You fay you will eat Grafs on his Grave; a Chriftian eat Grafs!

Whereby you now confefs your felf to be a Goose or an Afs:

But that's as much as to fay, that my Master should die before ye;

Well, well, that's as God pleafes, and I don't believe that's a true Story,

And fo fay I told you fo; and you may go tell my Mafter; 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 fhame the Devil;

I am but a poor Servant, but I think gentle Folks fhould be more civil.

Befides, 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, faid he, (one Day, as I was mending my Mafter's Stocking,)

My Master is fo fond of that Minifter, that keeps the School;

I thought my Mafter a wife Man, but that Man

makes him a Fool.

Saunders,