Imatges de pÓgina

Whence come these inconfiftent fits?

Robin. Why, Tom, the man has lost his wits.

Tom. Agreed: and yet when Towzer fnaps At people's heels with frothy chaps; Hangs down his head, and drops his tail, To fay he's mad will not avail:

The neighbours all cry, fhoot him dead,
Hang, drown, or knock him on the head.
So Traulus when he firft harangu'd,
I wonder why he was not hang'd;
For of the two, without difpute,
Towzer's the lefs offenfive brute.

Robin. Tom, you mistake the matter quite; Your barking curs will feldom bite; And though you hear him ftut-tut-tut-ter, He barks as faft as he can utter.

He prates in fpite of all impediment, While none believes, that what he faid he


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 d―n his blood,
He only meant it for your good:
His friendship was exactly tim'd,
He foot before your foes were prim'd.
By this contrivance, Mr. Dean;
By G

I'll bring you off as clean

Then let him ufe you e'er fo rough,
'Twas all for love, and that's enough.
But, though he fputter through a fession,
It never makes the leaft impreffion:
Whate'er he speaks for madness goes,
With no effect on friends or foes.

Tom. The scrubbieft cur in all the pack
Can fet the maftiff on your back.
I own, his madness is a jeft,

If that were all. But he's poffeft,
Incarnate with a thousand imps,

To work whose ends his madness pimps;
Who o'er each string and wire prefide,
Fill ev'ry pipe, each motion guide;
Directing ev'ry vice we find

In fcripture to the devil affign'd;
Sent from the dark infernal region,
In him they lodge, and make him legion.

*This is the ufual excufe of Traulus, when he abuses you to others without provocation.



Of brethren he's a falfe accufer;
A fland'rer, traitor, and feducer;
A fawning, base, trepanning liar
The marks peculiar of his fire.
Or, grant him but a drone at beft;
A drone can raise a hornet's neft.
The dean hath felt their ftings before ;
And muft their malice ne'er give o'er ?
Still fwarm and buzz about his nofe?
But Ireland's friends ne'er wanted foes.
A patriot is a dang'rous post,
When wanted by his country moft;
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, fince the world began, Could always bear to ftrive with man? Which God pronounc'd, he never wou'd, And foon convinc'd them by a flood. Yet ftill the dean on freedom raves; His fpirit always ftrives with flaves. "Tis time at last to spare his ink, And let them rot, or hang, or fink.



The Second PART.

Written in the Year 1730.

TRAULUS, of amphibious breed,
Motley fruit of mungril feed;

By the dam from lordlings fprung,
By the fire exhal'd from dung:
Think on every vice in both,
Look on him and fee their growth.

View him on the mother's fide,
Fill'd with falfhood, fpleen, and pride;
Pofitive and over-bearing,

Changing ftill, and ftill adhering;
Spightful, peevish, rude, untoward,
Fierce in tongue, in heart a coward;
When his friends he moft is hard on,
Cringing comes to beg their pardon;
Reputation ever tearing,

Ever dearest friendship fwearing;
Judgment weak and paffion strong,
Always various, always wrong:
Provocation never waits,

Where he loves, or where he hates;

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Talks whate'er comes in his head;
Wishes it were all unsaid.

Let me now the vices trace, From the father's fcoundrel race, Who could give the looby fuch airs? Were they mafons, were they butchers? Herald, lend the Mufe an anfwer From his atavus and grandfire : This was dextrous at his trowel, That was bred to kill a cow well: Hence the greafy clumsy mien In his drefs and figure feen; Hence the mean and fordid foul, Like his body rank and foul; Hence that wild fufpicious peep, Like a rogue that fteals a fheep; Hence he learnt the butcher's guile, How to cut your throat and fmile; 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 mafon's fide: Some perhaps may think him able In the ftate to build a Babel;



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