Imatges de pÓgina

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,
He only meant it for your good:
His friendship was exactly tim’d,
He hot before your foes were prim’d.
By this contrivance, Mr. Dean;
By G-I'll bring you off as clean-
Then let him use you e'er so rough,
'Twas all for love, and that's enough.
But, though he sputter through a fellion,
It never makes the least impression:
Whate’er he speaks for madness goes,
With no effect on friends or foes.

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;
A fland'rer, traitor, and seducer;
A fawning, base, trepanning liar ;
The marks peculiar of his fire.
Or, grant him but a drone at best;
A drone can raise a hornet's nest.
The dean hath felt their stings before ;
And must their malice ne'er give o'er?
Still fwarm and buzz about his nose?
But Ireland's friends ne'er wanted foes.
A patriot is a dang’rous poft,
When wanted by his country most;
Perversely comes in evil times,
Where virtues are imputed crimes.
His guilt is clear, the proofs are pregnant;
A traitor to the vices regnant.

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;
By the dam from lordlings fprung,
By the fire exhald from dung:
Think on every vice in both,
Look on him and see their growth.

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;
Wishes it were all unsaid.

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;


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