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But after pondering pro and con,
And mighty reasonings thereupon,
They found, on opening of the laws,
That he, the dog aforesaid, was
By being privy to the fact,
Within the meaning of the act,
And since the master had withdrawn,
And was the Lord knows whither gone,
They judged it right, and good in law,
That he, the dog, should answer for
Such crimes as they by proof could show,
Were acted by himself and Co.

The constable again was sent,

To bring the dog; or dread the event.

POOR PORTER, right before the door,

Was guarding of his master's store;
And as the constable approach'd him,
He caught him by the leg and broach'd him;
Poor Porter thought (if dogs can think)

He came to steal his master's chink.

The man, by virtue of his staff,

Bid people help; not stand and laugh;

On which a mighty rout began;

Some blamed the dog, and some the man.

Some said he had no business there,
Some said he had business every where.
At length the constable prevail'd,

And those who would not help were jail'd;
And taking Porter by the collar,
Commanded all the guards to follow.

The justices received the felon,
With greater form than I can tell on,
And quitting now their wine and punch,
Began upon him all at once.

At length a curious quibble rose,

How far the law could interpose,

For it was proved, and rightly too,
That he, the dog, did not pursue
The hare with any ill intent,
But only follow'd by the scent;
And she, the hare, by running hard,
Thro' hedge and ditch, without regard,
Plunged in a pond, and there was drown'd,
And by a neighboring justice found;
Wherefore, though he the hare annoy'd,
It can't be said that he destroy'd;
It even can't be proved he beat her,
And "to destroy," must mean "to eat her."
you e'er see a gamester struck,
With all the symptoms of ill luck?
Or mark the. visage which appears,
When even Hope herself despairs?
So look'd the bench, and every brother
Sad pictures drew of one another;
Till one more learned than the rest
Rose up, and thus the court address'd:

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"Now if, suppose, a man, or so,
Should be obliged, or not, to go
About, or not about, a case,
To this, or that, or t'other place;
And if another man, for fun,
Should fire a pistol (viz.) a gun,
And he, the first, by knowing not
That he, the second man, had shot,
Should undesign'dly meet the bullet,
Against the throat, (in Greek) the gullet,
And get such mischief by the hit
As should unsense him of his wit,

And if that, after that he died,

D'ye think the other mayn't be tried?
Most sure he must, and hang'd, because
He fired his gun against the laws:
For 'tis a case most clear and plain,
Had A not shot, B had not been slain :
So had the dog not chased the hare,

She never had been drown'd-that's clear."

This logic, rhetoric, and wit,

So nicely did the matter hit,

That Porter-tho' unheard, was cast,

And in a halter breathed his last.

The justices adjourned to dine,

And whet their logic up with wine.



Paris, 1800.

Going along the other day,
Upon a certain plan;
I met a nose upon the way,
Behind it was a man.

I called unto the nose to stop,
And when it had done so,-
The man behind it-he came up,
They made Zenobio.

Count Zenobio.





To the Editor of the Pennsylvania Magazine, 1775.

I have given your very modest "Snow Drop" what, I think, Shakspeare calls "a local habitation and a name;" that is, I have made a poet of him, and have sent him to take possession of a page in your next Magazine: here he comes, disputing with a critic about the propriety of a prologue.



Prologues to magazines!-the man is mad,
No magazine a prologue ever had;
But let us hear what new and mighty things
Your wonder working magic fancy brings.


Bit by the muse in an unlucky hour,

I've left myself at home, and turn'd a flower,
And thus disguised came forth to tell my tale,

A plain white Snow Drop gathered from the vale:

I come to sing that summer is at hand,

The summer time of wit, you'll understand;
And that this garden of our Magazine,
Will soon exhibit such a pleasing scene,
That even critics shall admire the show,

If their good grace will give us time to grow;
Beneath the surface of the parent earth,

We've various seeds just struggling into birth;

* Introduction to Magazine, No. 1.-See p. 18, Miscellaneous Letters and Essays.

Plants, fruits, and flowers, and all the smiling race,
That can the orchard or the garden grace;

Our numbers, Sir, so vast and endless are,
That when in full complexion we appear,

Each eye, each hand, shall pluck what suits its taste,
And every palate shall enjoy a feast;

The Rose and Lily shall address the fair,

And whisper sweetly out, "My dears, take care;
With sterling worth, the Plant of Sense shall rise,
And teach the curious to philosophize;
The keen eyed wit shall claim the Scented Briar,
And sober cits the Solid Grain admire ;
While generous juices sparkling from the Vine,
Shall warm the audience till they cry-divine!
And when the scenes of one gay month are o'er,
Shall clap their hands, and shout-encore! encore.


All this is mighty fine! but prithee, when
The frost returns, how fight you then your men?


I'll tell you, sir! we'll garnish out the scenes

With stately rows of hardy Evergreens,

Trees that will bear the frost, and deck their tops

With everlasting flowers, like diamond drops,

We'll draw, and paint, and carve, with so much skill, That wondering wits shall cry, diviner still!


Better, and better, yet! but now suppose,

Some critic wight, in mighty verse or prose,

Should draw his gray goose weapon, dipt in gall, And mow ye down, Plants, Flowers, Trees, and all.


Why, then we'll die like Flowers of sweet Perfume, And yield a fragrance even in the tomb!

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