A DIALOGUE

BETWEEN

MAD MULLINIX* AND TIMOTHY.

M.

1728.

OWN, 'tis not my bread and butter;
But prythee, Tim, why all this clutter?
Why ever in thefe raging fits,
Damning to hell the Jacobites?

When, if you fearch the kingdom round,
There 's hardly twenty to be found;
No, not among the pricfts and friars -
T. 'Twixt you and me, G-d-n the lyars!
M. The Tories are gone every man o'er
To our illuftrious houfe of Hanover;
From all their conduct this is plain;

T. G-d-n the lyars 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! [afide. T. Did not an able statesman bishop This dangerous horrid motion dish-up As popish craft? did he not rail on 't? Shew fire and faggot in the tail on 't?

A fictitious name. See the hiftory of this poem in the "Intelligencer," N° viii. N.

VOL. II.

G

Proving

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 show 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 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
Therfites (he was your relation)

Was more abhorr'd and scorn'd by those
With whom he ferv'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 treafon,

* 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 whifperings foifted 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 fide so d-n'd a nusance,
That, when they have you in their
As if the devil drove, they fly.

eye,

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 bloodt
I muft 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 scarce a creature can be found
To prance with me the ftatue round.
The public fafety, I forefee,
Henceforth depends alone on me ;
And while this vital breath I blow,
Or from above, or from below,
I'll sputter, fwagger, curse, 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 2

And

And should you act a different part,

Be grave and wife, 'twould break their heart.
Why, Tim, you have a taste I know,
And often see a puppet-show :
Obferve, the audience is in pain,
While Punch is hid behind the feene;
But, when they hear his rufty 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 liften to the witch of Endor.

Should Fauftus, with the Devil behind him,
Enter the stage, they never mind him :
If Punch, to stir their fancy, fhews
In at the door his monftrous nose,
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 queen of Sheba's lap :
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 roguifh tricks;

In

In

every action thrufts his nofe;

The reafon why, no mortal knows :

In doleful fcenes 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 share,
But purely come to hear and ftare;
Have no concern for Sabra's fake,
Which gets the better, faint or snake,
Provided Punch (for there 's the jeft)
Be foundly maul'd and plague the reft.
Thus, Tim, philofophers fuppofe,
The world confifts 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 in;

You wriggle, fidge, and make a rout,

Put all your brother puppets out,
Run on in a perpetual round,
To teaze, perplex, disturb, confound,
Intrude with monkey-grin and clatter
To interrupt all serious 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;