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Whence come these inconsistent fits?
Robin. Why, Tom, the man has lost his
Tom. Agreed: and yet when Towzer snaps At people's heels with frothy chaps; Hangs down his head, and drops his tail
, To say he's mad will not avail: The neighbours all cry, foot him dead, Hang, drown, or knock him on the head. So Traulus when he first harangu'd, I wonder why he was not hang’d; For of the two, without dispute, Towzer's the less offensive brute.
Robin. Tom, you mistake the matter quite; Your barking curs will feldom bite; And though you hear him stut-tut-tut-ter, He barks as fast as he can utter. He prates in spite of all impediment, While none believes, that what he said he
meant; Puts in his finger and his thumb To grope for words, and out they come. He calls you rogue; there's nothing in it, He fawns upon you in a minute:
Begs leave to rail, but dn his blood,
Tom. The scrubbiest cur in all the pack Can set the mastiff on your back. I own, his madness is a jest, If that were all. But he's poffest, Incarnate with a thousand imps, To work whose ends his madness pimps; Who o’er each string and wire preside, Fill ev'ry pipe, each motion guide; Directing ev'ry vice we find In scripture to the devil assignd; Sent from the dark infernal region, In him they lodge, and make him legion.
* This is the usual excuse of Traulus, when he abuses you to others without provocation.
Of brethren he's a false accuser;
What fpirit, since the world began, Could always bear to strive with man? Which God pronounc'd, he never wou'd, And foon convinc'd them by a flood. Yet still the dean on freedom raves ; His spirit always strives with slaves. 'Tis time at last to spare his ink, And let them rot, or hang, or sink.
T RA u L U S.
The Second PART.
Written in the Year '1730.
TRAULUS, of amphibious breed,
Motley fruit of mungril seed;
View him on the mother's side, Filld with falfhood, spleen, and pride ; Positive and over-bearing, Changing still, and still adhering; Spightful, peevish, rude, untoward, Fierce in tongue, in heart a coward; When his friends he most is hard on, Cringing comes to beg their pardon ; Reputation-ever tearing, Ever dearest friendship swearing; Judgment weak and passion strong, Always various, always wrong: Provocation never waits, Where he loves, or where he hates ; Vol. VII.
Talks whate'er comes in his head;
Let me now the vices trace, From the father's scoundrel race, Who could give the looby such airs? Were they masons, were they butchers ? Hérald, lend the Muse an answer From his atavus and grandfire : This was dextrous at his trowel, That was bred to kill a cow well: Hence the greasy clumsy mien In his dress and figure seen; Hence the mean and sordid soul, Like his body rank and foul; Hence that wild suspicious peep, Like a rogue that steals a sheep; Hence he learnt the butcher's guile, How to cut your throat and smile; Like a butcher doom'd for life In his mouth to wear his knife : Hence he draws his daily food From his tenants vital blood.
Laftly, let his gifts be try'd Borrow'd from the mason's fide: Some perhaps may think him able In the state to build a Babel;