Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 17.djvu/473



TO thee, sweet Fop, these lines I send, Who, though no spaniel, am a friend. Though once my tail, in wanton play Now frisking this and then that way, Chanc'd with a touch of just the tip To hurt your lady-lapdog-ship: 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. Fie, naughty Fop! where'er you come, To fart and piss 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 spite E'er said of me, is, I can bite; That idle gipsies, rogues in rags, Who poke at me, can make no brags; And that, to touse such things as flutter, To honest Bounce is bread and butter. While you and ev'ry courtly fop, Fawn on the devil for a chop, Rh