The Old PACK.
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I.
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COme ye Old English Huntsmen that love Noble Sport,
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Here's a Pack to be sold, and stanch Dogs of the sort,
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Not Sir Sewster, nor Chetwynd can watch our Fleet Hounds;
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For breaking down Fences, and leaping o'er Mounds;
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Some are Deep-mouth'd and Speedy, some Mad, Blind and Lame,
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Some Yelpers, and Curs, but all fit for the Game.
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Then to Horse Loyal Hearts, least the Roundheads deceive ye,
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For they have the Dogs, and are Riding Tantivy.
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II.
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There's Atheists and Deists, and fawning Dissenter,
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There's Republican Sly, and long-winded Canter;
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There's Heresie, Schism, and Mild Moderation,
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That's still in the Wrong, for the Good of the Nation;
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There's Baptist, Socinian, and Quakers with Scruples,
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'Till kind Toleration linkt 'em all in Church Couples.
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Then to Horse, etc.
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For they have, etc.
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III.
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Some were bred in the Army, some dropt from the Fleet,
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Under Bulks some were Litter'd, and some in the Street;
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Some were good harmless Curs, without Teeth or Claws,
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Some were Whelp'd in a Shop, and some Runners at Law;
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Some were wretched poor Curs, Mungrel Starvers and Setters,
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Till dividing the Spoil, they put in with their Betters.
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Then to Horse, etc.
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For they have, etc.
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IV.
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A few, very few, of the English Breed,
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Whose Noses were good, and of excellent speed:
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But What's a fine Mouth to oppose such Throats,
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Where Hunters and Noise quite drown the sweet Notes;
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If he hits of a Fault, or runs the Scent right,
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Honest Tory is worry'd for a Rank Jacobite.
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Then to Horse, etc.
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For they have, etc.
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V.
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Five Hundred stout Dogs are a brave Pack to run,
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But the Leaders in Chief are but Old Forty One;
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On hot burning Scent, when they open their Throats,
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Then Trayle a Court Place, How the stanchest change Notes?
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Tho' no Horn, nor Voice, can their Fury controul,
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Yet to the White Staff, they Hunt all under Poll.
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Then to Horse, etc.
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For they have, etc.
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VI.
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Crys the Huntsman, BEN. HOADLEY, dear Whelp, I'm a Knave,
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But you're all Sov'raign Curs, and your Prince is your Slave;
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This my Writings will prove, stol'n from Prynn, Noe, & Peters,
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That all Free-born Dogs may fall on their Betters:
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Then away on the Scent, 'tis the Old Game and Good,
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While Peers have fat Haunches, and Kings Royal Blood.
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Then to Horse Loyal Hearts, least the Roundheads deceive ye,
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For they have the Dogs, and are Riding Tantivy.
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VII.
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A stout Orthodox Doctor fell first in the Wind,
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The Pack open'd their Throats, in hopes Mobb wou'd have joyn'd;
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By a strong Passive Scent, they run him full Speed,
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'Till the Rabble cry'd out, you're Rank there, --- Take heed;
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What, o'er leap the Church Pales, and break Constitution?
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Here the Devil's your Leader, and you Hunt for Confusion!
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Then to Horse, etc.
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For they have, etc.
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VIII.
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At the Head of the Pack stupid William Commanding,
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Who's of Quality Breed, by his deep Understanding;
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If to dull worthless Whelps, we may Titles afford,
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His Merits confess him a Dog of a Lord:
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Those crafty old Curs that despise the poor Tool,
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Yet only for Luck-sake, they'l Hunt with a Fool.
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Then to Horse, etc.
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For they have, etc.
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IX.
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There's Wolfe Rapacious, and Bluster and Thunder,
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And Peter the Grim, and the late Speaker Blunder;
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For the dull heavy Curs love to mount in a Chair,
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Tho' like Monkeys that climb, th' expose that part bare,
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And Jackall the Ill-lookt, who trains up new Comers,
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And still speaks in Season, for his Wit come from Somers.
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Then to Horse, etc.
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For they have, etc.
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X.
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There's Hackum and Brass for their deep Mouths renown'd,
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Because empty Sculls have a great strength of sound:
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Send Hackum to Spain, what great Feats he'll archieve,
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And its Conduct enough to make Senates believe;
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And young Brass of Corinth can never deceive ye,
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For he pays off a Cause as well as a Navy.
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Then to Horse, etc.
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For they have, etc.
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XI.
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How Honour and Honesty Dogs can unite,
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For their Country's sake, they'll Steal, Plunder and Bite;
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Themselves and their Whelps they Enrich for their Good,
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And make Monarch's Great by shedding their Blood;
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Yet so eager for Gain---the White Staff take away,
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They Hunt dear Volpone for a Rank Beast of Prey.
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Then to Horse, etc.
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For they have, etc.
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XII.
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Then Tory, poor Tory, never hope to prevail,
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You're beat from the Pack with a Shoe at your Tail;
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Go learn to plead Conscience, when you Cheat, Lye, and Cant,
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And Plunder the Publick, with the Looks of a Saint:
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If you'd joyn the Old Set, with New Principles fit ye,
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Stick at nothing that's Base, you'll be o'th' Committee.
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Then to Horse Loyal Hearts, least the Roundheads deceive ye,
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For they have the Dogs, and are Riding Tantivy.
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FINIS.
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