The MASTIF and CURS. A Fable inscrib'd to Mr. POPE. By the same Hand,
A MASTY of our English breed
Allow'd all others to exceed,
In ample head and solid heart;
Strong, stately, true in ev'ry part;
March'd through the town with stedfast pace,
Like former heroes of his race.
Offending none; for in his mind
Candor with resolution join'd.
Yet over ev'ry threshold leapt
The little dogs by ladies kept,
Who snarl or flatter for reward,
The tea-pot and the slippers guard.
Whilst butchers curs forsake the stalls,
And each upon the masty falls,
With distant noise and threat'ning grin,
Tho' none durst fasten on his skin.
So well his greater strength they knew,
Who dirt and scandal on him threw.
For not a cat that had been torn,
Or hen that from the roost was born,
But to his charge they barking lay:
Tho' he despis'd that vulgar play,
Nor cou'd by ought be mov'd to rage,
But what was fit for Hockley's stage.
Who when he careless tost or rowl'd,
Was still superiour, stern and gold.
Couch'd at the door or on the green,
In him the masty still was seen.
Tho' now those rude assaults he bore,
And every moment look'd for more.
'Till on a day some gen'rous man,
To rouze his anger thus began.
How long will you endure these yelps,
From danes and lap-dogs, heartless whelps!
Revenge your self, amongst them start,
Break at each bite some lady's heart.
Make Sharper, Cupid, Fop and Beau,
Stretcht at your feet their folly know.
Or smartly crush each paper scull,
With such a pinch as mads the bull.
The masty now 'twas worth his while,
Reply'd with a disdainful smile.
To you, Sir, who our fate command,
Loo or restrain us with your hand.
Tis fit that some account I yield,
Why I'm so slow to take the field;
Or to employ my well known pow'r,
Such carping vermin to devour.
But whilst I keep them all in awe,
From their assaults this good I draw;
To make you men the diff'rence see,
Between this bawling troop and me.
Comparison your observation stirs,
I were no masty if there were no curs.