"And truly, madam, I know when
Instead of five you scor'd me ten.
Spadillo here has got a mark;
A child may know it in the dark :
I guess'd the hand; it seldom fails:
I wish some folks would pair their nails."
While thus they rail, and scold, and storm,
It passes but for common form:
But, conscious that they all speak trúé,
And give each other but their due,
It never interrupts the game,
Or makes them sensible of shame.
The time too precious now to waste,
The supper gobbled up in haste;
Again afresh to cards they run,
As if they had but just begun.
But I shall not again repeat,
How oft they squabble, snarl, and cheat.
At last they hear the watchman knock,
"A frosty morn-past four o'clock."
The chairmen are not to be found,
"Come, let us play the other round."
Now all in haste they huddle on
Their hoods, their cloaks, and get them gone';
But, first, the winner must invite
The company to-morrow night.
Unlucky madam, left in tears,
(Who now again quadrille forswears)
With empty purse, and aching head,
Steals to her sleeping spouse to bed.
M. I OWN, 'tis not my bread and butter
But prithee, Tim, why all this clutter?
Why ever in these raging fits,
Damning to Hell the jacobites?
When if you search the kingdom round,
There's hardly twenty to be found;
No, not among the priests and friars-
T. 'Twixt you and me, G--d d-n the liars!
M. The tories are gone every man over
To our illustrious house of Hanover;
From all their conduct this is plain;
And then-
T. G―d d—n the liars again!
Did not an earl but lately vote,
To bring in (I could cut his throat)
Our whole accounts of public debts?
M. Lord how this frothy coxcomb frets! [aside.
T. Did not an able statesman bishop
This dangerous horrid motion dish up
As popish craft? did he not rail on't?
Show fire and faggot in the tail on't?
Proving the earl a grand offender,
And in a plot for the pretender;
Whose fleet, 'tis all our friends' opinion,
Was then embarking at Avignon?
M. These wrangling jars of whig and tory, Are stale 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 such noisy fools as you;
But you, when all the show is past,
Resolve to stand it out the last;
Like Martin Marall,* gaping on,
Not minding when the song is done.
When all the bees are gone to settle,
You clatter still your brazen kettle.
The leaders whom you listed under,
Have dropt their arms, and seiz'd the plunder;
And when the war is past, you come
To rattle in their ears your drum:
And as that hateful hideous Grecian,
Thersites (he was your relation,)
Was more abhorr'd and scorn'd by those
With whom he serv'd, than by his foes;
So thou art grown the detestation
Of all thy party through the nation:
Thy peevish and perpetual teasing
With plots, and jacobites, and treason,
Thy busy never-meaning face,
Thy screw'd-up front, thy state grimace,
Thy formal nods, important sneers,
Thy whisperings foisted in all ears,
(Which are, whatever you may think,
But nonsense wrapt up in a stink)
Have made thy presence, in a true sense,
To thy own side, so d--n'd a nuisance,
*A character in one of Dryden's comedies. H.
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 severe :
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 so cold,
That scarce a creature can be found
To prance with me the statue round.
The public safety, I foresee,
Henceforth depends alone on me;
And while this vital breath I blow,
Or from above or from below,
I'll sputter, swagger, curse, and rail,
The tories' terror, scourge and flail.
M. Tim, you mistake the matter quite;
The tories! you are their delight;
And should you act a different part,
Be grave and wise, 'twould break their heart.
Why, Tim you have a taste I know,
And often see a puppetshow:
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 straws,
How Solomon decides the cause,
Which the true mother, which pretender;
Nor listen to the witch of Endor.
Should Faustus, with the Devil behind him,
Enter the stage, they never mind him ;
If Punch, to stir their fancy, shows
In at the door his monstrous nose,
Then sudden draws it back again:
O what a pleasure mixt with pain!
You every moment think an age,
Till he appears upon the stage:
And first his bum you see him clap
Upon the queen of Sheba's lap :
The duke of Lorraine drew his sword;
Punch roaring ran, and running roar'd,
Reviles all people in his jargon,
And sells the king of Spain a bargain;
St. George himself he plays the wag on,
And mounts astride upon the dragon ;
He gets a thousand thumps and kicks,
Yet cannot leave his roguish tricks ;
In every action thrusts 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, teasing all, by all he's teas'd,
How well are the spectators pleas'd!
Who in the motion have no share,
But purely come to hear and stare;
Have no concern for Sabra's sake,
Which gets the better, saint or snake,
Frovided Punch (for there's the jest)
Be soundly maul'd and plague the rest.
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