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Whence come these inconfiftent fits?
Robin. Why, Tom, the man has loft his
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 stut-tut-tut-ter, He barks as faft as he can utter. He prates in fpite of all impediment, While none believes, that what he said he
Puts in his finger and his thumb
Begs leave to rail, but d―n his blood,
Tom. The fcrubbieft cur in all the pack Can fet the mastiff on your back. I own, his madness is a jest, If that were all. But he's poffeft, Incarnate with a thousand imps, To work whofe ends his madness pimps; Who o'er each ftring and wire prefide, Fill ev'ry pipe, each motion guide; Directing ev'ry vice we find In scripture 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;
What spirit, fince the world began, Could always bear to frive 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 spirit always ftrives with flaves. "Tis time at laft to fpare his ink, And let them rot, or hang, or fink.
The Second PART.
Written in the Year 1730.
TRAULUS, of amphibious breed,
View him on the mother's fide, Fill'd with falfhood, fpleen, and pride; Pofitive and over-bearing, Changing still, 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; VOL. VII.
Talks whate'er comes in his head;
Let me now the vices trace, From the father's fcoundrel race, Who could give the looby such airs? Were they masons, 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 dress 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;