« ПредишнаНапред »
Tom. Yet many a wretch in bedlam knows
How to diftinguish friends from foes ;
And though perhaps among the rout,
He wildly Aings his filth about ;
He still has gratitude and fap'ence,
To spare the folks that give hin: ha’pence;
Nor in their eyes at random pifles,
But turns afide, like mad Ulyffes :
While Traulus all his ordure scatters,
To foul the man he chiefly flatters.
Whence come these inconlistent fits ?
Robin. Why, Tom, the man has lost his wits,
Tom. Agreed: and yet when Towzer snaps
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 harangud,
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 feldom bite ; And though 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 n his blood, 55 “ He only meant it for your good : “ His friendfhip was exactly 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 e'er so rough, « 'Twas all for love," and that's enough. But though he sputter through a session, It never makes the least impression : Whate'er he speaks for madnefs goes, With no effect on friends or foes.
Tom. The scrubbieft 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 poffeft,
Incarnate with a thousand imps,
To work whose ends his madness pimps ;
Who o'er each string 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.
Of brethren he's a false accuser ;
A fland'rer, traitor, and feducer;
A fawning, base, trepanning liar;
The marks peculiar of his fire.
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 buzz about his 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..
* This is the usual excuse of Traulus, when he abuses you to others without provocation,
His guilt is clear, the proofs are pregnant ;
A traitor to the vices regnant.
What fpirit, since the world began,
Could always bear to strive with man?
Which God pronounce'd he never wou’d,
And foon convince'd them by a flood.
Yet still the Dean on freedom raves ;
His fpirit always strives with flaves,
'Tis time at last to spare his ink,
And let them rot, or hang, or fink.
"Raulus of amphibious breed,
Motley fruit of mungrel feed :
By the dam from lordlings sprung,
By the fire exhal'd from dung;
Think on ev'ry vice in both,
Look on him, and see their growth.
View him on the mother's fide,
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 ;
Judgement weak, and passion strong,
Always various, always wrong:
Provocation never waits,
Where he loves, or where he hates ;
Talks whate'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 grandfire :
This was dex'trous at his trowel,
That was bred io kill a cow well :
Hence the greasy clumsy mien
In his dress and figure seen;
Hence the mean and forded soul,
Like his body, rank and foul;
Hence that wild suspicious peep,
Like a rogue that steals a theep;
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 fide :
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 defcend !
In him tell me which prevail,
Female vices moft, or male ?
What produc'd him, can you tell ?
Human race, or imps of hell?
Written in the year 1730,
Ueen of wit and beauty, Betty!
Never may the muse forget ye :
How thy face charms ev'ry shepherd,
Spotted over like a leopard ;
And, thy freckled neck display'd,
Envy breeds in ev'ry maid,
Like a fly-blown cake of tallow,
Or on parchment ink turn'd yellow,
Or a tawny speckled pippin
Shrivel'd with a winter's keeping.
And, thy beauty thus dispatch’d,
Let me praise thy wit unmatch’d.
Sets of phrases, cut and dry,
Evermore thy tongue supply.
And thy memory is loaded
With old scraps from plays exploded :
Stock'd with repartees and jokes,
Suited to all Christian folks ;
Shreds of wit, and senseless rhymes,
Blunder'd out a thousand times.
Nor wilt thou of gifts be sparing.
Which can ne'er be worse for wearing,
Picking wit among collegians,
In the playhouse upper regions ;