Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/263

Rh Come, help your lame dog o'er the stile. . Sir, you mistake me all this while: I mean a dog (without a joke) Can howl, and bark, but never spoke. . I'm still to seek, which dog you mean; Whether our Plunkett, or whelp Skean, An English or an Irish hound; Or t'other puppy, that was drown'd; Or Mason, that abandoned bitch: Then pray be free, and tell me which: For every 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 just; for wise men say, That every dog must have his day. Dog Walpole laid a quart of nog on't, He'd either make a hog or dog on't; And look'd, since he has got his wish, As if he had thrown down a dish. Yet this I dare foretel you from it, He'll soon return to his own vomit. . Besides, this horrid plot was found By Neynoe, after he was drown'd. . Why then the proverb is not right, Since you can teach dead dogs to bite. . I prov'd my proposition full: But jacobites are strangely dull. Now, let me tell you plainly, sir, Our witness is a real cur, 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 every plot: Resolv'd