Come, help your lame dog o'er the stile.
Whig. Sir, you mistake me all this while:
I mean a dog (without a joke)
Can howl, and bark, but never spoke.
Tory. 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.
Whig. Besides, this horrid plot was found
By Neynoe, after he was drown'd.
Tory. Why then the proverb is not right,
Since you can teach dead dogs to bite.
Whig. 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
