Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 8.djvu/67

 R. Tom, you mistake the matter quite; Your barking curs will seldom bite; And though you hear him stut-tut-tut-er, He barks as fast as he can utter. He prates in spite of all impediment, While none believes that what he said he meant; Puts in his finger and his thumb To grope for words, and out they come. He calls you rogue; there's nothing in it, He fawns upon you in a minute: "Begs leave to rail, but, d—n his blood! He only meant it for your good: His friendship was exactly tim'd, He shot before your foes were prim'd. By this contrivance, Mr. dean; By G—! I'll bring you off as clean —" Then let him use you e'er so rough, "'Twas all for love," and that's enough. But, though he sputter through a session, It never makes the least impression: Whate'er he speaks for madness goes, With no effect on friends or foes. T. The scrubbiest cur in all the pack Can set the mastiff on your back, I own, his madness is a jest, If that were all. But he's possest, Incarnate with a thousand imps, To work whose ends his madness pimps; Who o'er each string and wire preside, Fill every pipe, each motion guide; Directing every vice we find In Scripture to the Devil assign'd; Sent from the dark infernal region, In him they lodge, and make him legion. Of