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Rh This dog and man at first were friends; But when a pique began, The dog, to gain some private ends, Went mad and bit the man.

Around, from all the neighb'ring streets, The wond'ring neighbours ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits, To bite so good a man.

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad To every Christian eye; And while they swore the dog was mad, They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light, That shew'd the rogues they lied; The man recovered of his bite, The dog it was that died.

 

banks they are furnished with bees, Whose murmur invites one to sleep; My grottoes are shaded with trees. And my hills are white over with sheep. I seldom have met with a loss, Such health do my fountains bestow; My fountains all bordered with moss, Where the hare-bell and violet grow.

Not a pine in my grove is there seen, But with tendrils of woodbine is bound; Not a beech's more beautiful green, But a sweet briar entwines it around. 