Proving the earl a grand offender,

And in a plot for the Pretender; *
Whofe fleet, 'tis all our friends opinion,
Was then embarking at Avignon ?

[A few dull lines are here purposely omitted.]
M. These wrangling jars of Whig and Tory
Are ftale and worn as Troy-town story:
The wrong, 'tis certain, you were both in,
And now you find you fought for nothing.
Your faction, when their game was new,
Might want fuch noify fools as you;
But you, when all the fhow is paft,
Refolve to ftand it out the laft;
Like Martin Marrall, gaping-on,
Not minding when the fong is done.
When all the bees are gone to fettle,
You clatter ftill your brazen kettle.
The leaders whom you lifted under
Have dropt their arms, and feiz'd the plunder;
And when the war is paft, you come
To rattle in their ears your drum :
And as that hateful hideous Grecian
Therlites (he was your relation)
Was more abhorr'd and fcorn'd by those
With whom he serv'd, than by his foes ;
So thou art grown the deteftation

Of all thy party through the nation :
Thy peevish and perpetual teazing
With plots, and Jacobites, and treason,

A character in one of Dryden's comedies,

Thy

Thy bufy, never-meaning face,

Thy fcrew'd-up front, thy ftate-grimace,
Thy formal nods, important fneers,
Thy whisperings foifled in all ears
(Which are, whatever you may think,
But nonsense wrapt up in a stink),
Have made thy presence, in a true fense,
To thy own fide fo d-n'd a nufance,
That, when they have you in their eye,
As if the devil drove, they fly.

T. My good friend Mullinix, forbear;
I vow to G-, you 're too fevere:
If it could ever yet be known

I took advice, except my own,

It should be yours: but, d-n my blood!
I must pursue the public good:

The faction (is it not notorious?)
Keck at the memory of Glorious *:
'Tis true; nor need I to be told,
My quondam friends are grown fo cold,
That fearce a creature can be found
To prance with me the ftatue round.
The public fafety, 1 foresee,
Henceforth depends alone on me ;
And while this vital breath I blow,
Or from above, or from below,
I'll fputter, fwagger, curfe, and rail,
The Tories terror, fcourge, and flail.
M. Tim, you mistake the matter quite;
The Tories! you are their delight;

King William III.

G&

And

And should act a different part, `

you

Be grave and wife, 'twould break their heart.
Why, Tim, you have a taste I know,
And often fee a puppet-show:
·Observe, the audience is in pain,
While Punch is hid behind the scene;
But, when they hear his rusty voice,
With what impatience they rejoice!
And then they value not two ftraws,
How Solomon decides the caufe,
Which the true mother, which pretender ;
Nor liften to the witch of Endor.

Should Fauftus, with the Devil behind him,
Enter the ftage, they never mind him :
If Punth, to ftir their fancy, fhews
In at the door his monstrous nofe,
Then fudden draws it back again;
O what a pleasure mixt with pain!
You every moment think an age,
Till he appears upon the stage:
And firft his bum you fee him clap
Upon the
of Sheba's lap :
queen
The duke of Lorraine drew his fword;
Punch roaring ran, and running roar'd,
Reviles all people in his jargon,
And fells the king of Spain a bargain;
St. George himself he plays the wag on,
And mounts aftride upon the dragon;
He gets a thousand thumps and kicks,
Yet cannot leave his roguish tricks;

In

every action thrufts his nose;

The reason why, no mortal knows:

In doleful scenes that break our heart,
Punch comes, like you, and lets a fart.
There's not a puppet made of wood,
But what would hang him, if they could;.
While, teazing all, by all he 's teaz'd,
How well are the fpectators pleas'd!
Who in the motion have no fhare,
But purely come to hear and ftare ;-
Have no concern for Sabra's fake,
Which gets
the better, faint or fnake,
Provided Punch (for there's the jeft)
Be foundly maul'd, and plague the rest,
Thus, Tim, philofophers fuppofe,
The world confifis of puppet-shows ;.
Where petulant conceited fellows
Perform the part of Punchinelloes:
So at this booth, which we call Dublin,
Tim, thou 'rt the Punch to stir up trouble ing

You wriggle, fidge, and make a rout,

Put all your brother puppets out,
Run on in a perpetual round,

To teaze, perplex, difturb, confound,
Intrude with monkey-grin and clatter
To interrupt all ferious matter;
Are grown the nuifance of your clan,
Who hate and fcorn you to a man:
But then the lookers-on, the Tories,,
You ftill divert with. merry ftories;

They would confent that all the crew

Were hang'd, before they 'd part with you.
But tell me, Tim, upon the spot,
By all this toil what hast thou got ?
If Tories, must have all the fport,

I fear you 'll be difgrac'd at court.

T. Got? D-n my blood! I frank my letters, Walk to my place before my betters;

And, fimple as I now ftand here,

Expect in time to be a peer

Got? D-n me! why I got my will!

Ne'er hold my peace, and ne'er ftand fill:

I fart with twenty ladies by;

They call me beaft; and what care 1?

I bravely call the Tories Jacks,

And fons of whores

behind their backs.

But, could you bring me once to think,
That, when I ftrut, and ftare, and stink,
Revile and flander, fume and storm,
Betray, make oath, impeach, inform,
With fuch a conftant loyal zeal
To ferve myself and common-weal,
And fret the Tories' foul to death,
I did but lofe my precious breath;

And, when I damn my foul to plague 'em,
Am, as you tell me, but their may-game ;
Confume my vitals they fhall know,
I am not to be treated fo;

I'd rather hang myfelf by half,

Than give thofe rafeals caufe to laugh.

Bur