The Moral.
The Trimmer that will side with none,
Is forc'd to side with ev'ry one;
And with his Comp'ny change his story,
Long live the Whig, long live the Tory.
The two Bitches.
A Bitch, who hardly had a day
To reckon, knew not where to lay
Her Burthen down: She had no Bed;
Nor any Roof to hide her Head;
Desires a Bitch of the same Pack,
To let her have, for Heaven's sake,
Her House against her Lying-in.
Th' other, who thought it was a Sin,
To baulk a Wretch so near her Labour,
Says, Yes, 'tis at your Service, Neighbour.
She stays the Month out, and above,
And then desires her to remove:
But th' other tells her, there's yet none
Of all my Whelps can walk alone,
Have patience but one Fortnight longer.
I hope by that time they'll be stronger.
She grants it, and when that's about,
Again she asks her to turn out;
Resign her Chamber, and her Bed:
The other shew'd her Teeth, and said,
My Children now are strong enough,
Some of 'em able to stand buff.
W' are free to go, but don't mistake us,
That is to say, if you can make us.
The Moral.
Whoever lets the Wicked in
Shall hardly get them out again;
What they can keep, they'll ne'er restore,
And by fair Means you'll have no more
Returns from them, than from the Grave,
Therefore he that will lend a Knave,
Must be resolv'd on Law and Force;
If not, he'll bid you take your Course.
The Sick Lyon and the Fox.
The King of Brutes sent all about,
He was afflicted with the Gout;
And orders ev'ry Species
To visit him by Embassies.
To see his Subject Beasts would be
Some Comfort to him in his Misery:
He swears them faithfully, they shall
Be lodg'd, and treated very well.
Then for a Safeguard, sends forsooth,
Passes against his Claw and Tooth.
His Vassals in obedience come, }
And ev'ry Species sends him some. }
Only the Foxes stay at home; }
Their Reason was, they saw the Print
Of ev'ry beastly Foot, that went:
But found no Marks, by which, 'twas plain,
That any e'er came back again:
And truly that's suspicious,
Says one, poor Folks are timerous.
We know the King would not abuse us;
But yet desire him to excuse us.
As for his Pass we thank him for't,
And believe 'tis good. But in his Court
We know, which way we may go in,
But not, which to come back again.