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.