Bounce to Fop

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

 

To thee, sweet Fop, these Lines I send,

Who, tho' no Spaniel, am a Friend.

Tho, once my Tail in wanton play,

Now frisking this, and then that way,

5Chanc'd, with a Touch of just the Tip,

To hurt your Lady-lap-dog-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,

10Can 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.

15Fye, naughty Fop! where e'er you come

To f---t and p---ss about the Room,

To lay your Head in every Lap,

And, when they think not of you — snap!

The worst that Envy, or that Spite

20E'er said of me, is, I can bite:

That sturdy Vagrants, Rogues in Rags,

Who poke at me, can make no Brags;

And that to towze such Things as flutter,

To honest Bounce is Bread and Butter.

 

25While you, and every courtly Fop,

Fawn on the Devil for a Chop,

I've the Humanity to hate

A Butcher, tho' he brings me Meat;

And let me tell you, have a Nose,

30(Whatever stinking Fops suppose)

That under Cloth of Gold or Tissue,

Can smell a Plaister, or an Issue.

 

Your pilf'ring Lord, with simple Pride,

May wear a Pick-lock at his Side;

35My Master wants no Key of State,

For Bounce can keep his House and Gate.

 

When all such Dogs have had their Days,

As knavish Pams, and fawning Trays;

When pamper'd Cupids, bestly Veni's,

40And motly, squinting Harvequini's,

Shall lick no more their Lady's Br---,

But die of Looseness, Claps, or Itch;

Fair Thames from either ecchoing Shoare

Shall hear, and dread my manly Roar.

 

45See Bounce, like Berecynthia, crown'd

With thund'ring Offspring all around,

Beneath, beside me, and a top,

A hundred Sons! and not one Fop.

 

Before my Children set your Beef,

50Not one true Bounce will be a Thief;

Not one without Permission feed,

(Tho' some of F---'s hungry Breed)

But whatsoe'er the Father's Race,

From me they suck a little Grace.

55While your fine Whelps learn all to steal,

Bred up by Hand and Chick and Veal.

 

My Eldest-born resides not far,

Where shines great Strafford's glittering Star:

My second (Child of Fortune!) waits

60At Burlington's Palladian Gates:

A third majestically stalks

(Happiest of Dogs!) in Cobham's Walks:

One ushers Friends to Bathurst's Door;

One fawns, at Oxford's, on the Poor.

 

65Nobles, who Arms or Arts adorn,

Wait for my Infants yet unborn.

None but a Peer of Wit and Grace,

Can hope a Puppy of my Race.

 

And O! wou'd Fate the Bliss decree

70To mine (a Bliss too great for me)

That two, my tallest Sons, might grace

Attending each with stately Pace,

Iulus' Side, as erst Evander's,

To keep off Flatt'rers, Spies, and Panders,

75To let no noble Slave 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,

80Few but Himself deserve to find.

 

Then Bounce ('tis all that Bounce can crave)

Shall wag her Tail within the Grave.

 

And tho' no Doctors, Whig, or Tory ones,

Except the Sect of Pythagoreans,

85Have Immortality assign'd

To any Beast, but Dryden's Hind:

Yet Master Pope, whom Truth and Sense

Shall call their Friend some Ages hence,

Tho' now on loftier Themes he sings

90Than to bestow a Word on Kings,

Has sworn by Sticks (the Poet's Oath,

And Dread of Dogs and Poets both)

Man and his Works he'll soon renounce,

And roar in Numbers worthy Bounce.