Each atom by fome other ftruck
All turns and motions tries:
Till in a lump together ftuck,
Behold a poem rife!

Yet to the Dean his share allot;

He claims it by a canon;
That without which a thing is not,
Is, caufa fine quá non.

Thus, Pope, in vain you boast your wit;
For, had our deaf divine
Been for your conversation fit,

You had not writ a line.

Of prelate thus for preaching fam'd
The fexton reafon'd well;
And justly half the merit claim'd,
Because he rang

A polite turn is given to this incident by Mr. Pope in

the bell.

his letter to Dr. Sheridan, Vol. XII. Letter 32.

*BOUNCE

An epistle from a dog at Twickenham to a dog at court.

Tfend,
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 juft the tip
To hurt your lady-lap-dog-fhip :
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 ftrings and flicks.
We country dogs love nobler fport,
And fcorn the pranks of dogs at court.
Fie, naughty Fop! where-e'er you come,
To fart and pifs about the room,
To lay your head in ev'ry lap,

O thee, sweet Fop, thefe lines I

And, when they think not of you-snap ! The worst that envy, or that spite

E'er faid of me, is, I can bite;

That idle gypfies, rogues in rags,

Who poke at me, can make no brags ;

And

And that to towze fuch things as flutter
To honeft Bounce is bread and butter.

While you, and ev'ry courtly fop,
Fawn on the devil for a chop,
I've the humanity to hate

A butcher, though he brings me meat;
And let me tell you, have a nofe,
(Whatever stinking fops fuppofe),
That under cloth of gold or tiffue
Can smell a plaister, or an iffue,

Your pilf'ring lord with simple pride
May wear a pick-lock at his fide;
My mafter wants no key of state,
For Bounce can keep his house and gate.

When all fuch dogs have had their days, As knavish Pams, and fawning Trays; When pamper'd Cupids, beaftly Venis, And motly, fquinting Harlequinis, Shall lick no more their ladies br—, But die of looseness, claps, or itch; Fair Thames from either echoing fhore Shall hear and dread my manly roar.

VOL. VI.

d Alii legunt Harvequinis.
T

See

See Bounce, like Berecynthia, crown'd With thund'ring offspring all around; Beneath, befide me, and at top,

A hundred fons, and not one

ne fop!

Before children fet your beef,

my

Not one true Bounce will be a thief;
Not one without permiffion feed,
(Though fome of 7-n's hungry breed :)
But, whatfoe'er the father's race,
From me they fuck a little grace:
While your fine whelps learn all to fteal,
Bred up by hand on chick and veal.

My eldeft-born refides not far, Where fhines great Strafford's glitt'ring ftar:

My fecond (child of fortune!) waits
At Burlington's Palladian gates:
A third majestically stalks

(Happieft of dogs!) in Cobham's walks: One ufhers friends to Bathurst's door; One fawns at Oxford's on the poor.

Nobles, whom arms or arts adorn, Wait for my infants yet unborn.

None

ON THE COUNTESS OF BURLINGTON. 275
None but a peer of wit and grace
Can hope a puppy of my race.

And O! wou'd fate the blifs decree
To mine, (a blifs too great for me!)
That two talleft fons might grace,
Attending each with ftately pace,
Iülus' fide, as erft Evander's',

my

To keep off flatt'rers, fpies, and panders,
To let no noble flave come near
And scare lord Fannys from his ear:
Then might a royal youth, and true,
Enjoy at least a friend-or two;
A treasure, which of royal kind
Few but himself deserve to find.

Then Bounce ('tis all that Bounce can

crave)

Shall wag her tail within the grave.

On the countess of Burlington cutting paper.

PALLAS grew vap'rifh once and odd

She would not do the leaft right thing

Either for Goddess or for God,

Nor work, nor play, nor paint, nor fing.