ROBIN. I own appearances are bad,
Yet still insist the man is mad.
TOм. Yet many a wretch in Bedlam knows
How to distinguish friends from foes;
And tho' perhaps among the rout
He wildly flings his filth about,
He still has gratitude and sap'ence,
To spare the folks that give him ha'pence,
Nor in their eyes at random pisses,
But turns aside, like mad Ulysses,
While Traulus all his ordure scatters,
To foul the man he chiefly flatters.
Whence come these inconsistent fits?
ROBIN. Why, Tom, the man has lost his wits. TOM. Agreed; and yet when Towzer snaps 35 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, "Shoot 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; 45 Your barking curs will seldom bite;
And tho' 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; 50
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 exalety tim'd,
He shot 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 ere so rough,
'Twas all for love, and that's enough.
But tho' he sputter thro' a session,
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 possest,
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 assign'd;
Sent from the dark infernal region,
In him they lodge, and make him Legion.
Of brethren he's a false accuser,
A sland'rer, traitor, and seducer;
A fawning, base, trepanning liar,
The marks peculiar of his sire.
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 swarm and buz about the nose?
But Ireland's friends ne'er wanted foes.
A patriot is a dang'rous post,
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 spirit, since the world began,
Could always bear to strive with man?
Which God pronounc'd he never wou'd,
And soon 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.
Written in the year 1730.
TRAULUS, of amphibious breed,
Motley fruit of mongrel seed,
By the dam from lordlings sprung,
By the sire exhal'd from dung;
Think on ev'ry vice in both,
Look on him, and see their growth.
View him on the mother's side,
Fill'd with falsehood, spleen, and pride;
Positive and over-bearing,
Changing still, and still adhering;
Spiteful, 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;
Talks what'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?
Herald, lend the Muse an answer
From his atavus and grandsire :
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 learn'd 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.
Lastly, let his gifts be try'd
Borrow'd from the mason's side.
Some perhaps may think him able
In the state to build a Babel,
Could we place him in a station
To destroy the old foundation.
True, indeed, I should be gladder
Could he learn to mount a ladder.
May he at his latter-end
Mount alive, and dead descend!
In him tell me which prevail,
Female vices most, or male?
What produc'd him can you tell?
Human race, or imps of hell?
Written in the year 1730.
QUEEN of Wit and beauty, Betty!
Never may the Muse forget ye :
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