Ungodly papers every week

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Poor simple Souls persuade
That Courtiers good for nothing are
Or but for mischeif made.

But I who know their worthy hearts
Pronounce tis we are blind
Who disapoint their honest schemes
Who would be just and kind.

For in this vile degenerate Age
Tis dang'rous to do good,
Which will when I have told my Tale
Be better understood.

A puppy Gamesome blithe and young
Who plaid about the Court
Was destin'd by unlucky boys
To be their noon-day's sport.

With Flattering words they him enticed,
Words such as much prevail,
And then with cruel art they ty'd
A Bottle to his Tail.

Lord Harvy at a window stood
Detesting of the Fact
And cry'd aloud with all his might,
I know that bottle's crack'd.

Do not to such a dirty hole
Let them your Tail apply,
Alas, you cannot know these things
One halfe so well as I.

Harmless and young you dont suspect
The Venom of this deed
But I see through the whole design
Which is to make you bleed.

This good advice was cast away,
The puppy saw it shine
And tamely lick'd their treacherous hands
And thought himselfe grown fine.

But long he had not worn the Gemm
But as Lord Harvy said,
He run and bled, the more he run
Alas the more he bled.

Greiv'd to the Soul this Gallant Lord
Tripp'd hastily down stairs,
With courage and compassion fir'd
To set him free prepares.

But such was his Ingratitude
To that most noble Lord
He bit his lilly hand quite through
As he unty'd the Cord.

Next day the maids of H[onou]r came
As I heard people tell,
They wash'd the wound with brinish tears
And yet it is not well.

Oh Generous Youth my Councel take
And warlike Acts forbear,
Put on White Gloves and lead folks out
For that is your affair.

Never attempt to take away
Bottles from others' Tails
For that is what no Soul will bear
From Italy to Wales.
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