Tom. Yet many a wretch in bedlam knows
How to diftinguith friends from foes;
And though perhaps among the rout,
He wildly flings his filth about ;
He ftill has gratitude and fap'ence,
To fpare the folks that give hin: ha'pence;
Nor in their eyes at random piffes,
But turns afide, like mad Ulyffes:
While Traulus all his ordure scatters,
To foul the man he chiefly flatters.
Whence come these inconfiftent fits?
Robin. Why, Tom, the man has loft his wits,
Tom. Agreed: and yet when Towzer fnaps At people's heels with frothy chaps;
Hangs down his head and drops his tail,
To fay 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 difpute,
Towzer's the lefs offenfive brute.
Robin. Tom, you mistake the matter quite;
Your barking curs will feldom bite;
And though you hear him ftut-tut-tut ter,
He barks as faft as he can utter.
He prates in fpite 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 exactly tim❜d,
"He fhot before your foes were prim'd,
By this contrivance, Mr. Dean,
By G- I'll bring you off as clean”.
Then let him ufe you e'er fo rough,
" "Twas all for love," and that's enough.
But though he fputter through a feflion,
It never makes the leaft impreflion :
Whate'er he speaks for madness goes,
With no effect on friends or foes.
Tom. The fcrubbieft cur in all the pack Can fet the maftiff on your back.
I own, his madness is a jeft,
If that were all. But he's poffeft,
Incarnate with a thousand imps,
To work whofe ends his madness pimps;
Who o'er each ftring and wire prefide,
Fill ev'ry pipe, each motion guide;
Directing ev'ry vice we find
In fcripture to the devil affign'd;
Sent from the dark infernal region,
In him they lodge, and make him legion.
Of brethren he's a falfe accufer;
A fland'rer, traitor, and feducer;
A fawning, bafe, trepanning liar;
The marks peculiar of his fire.
Or grant him but a drone at best,.
A drone cah raife a hornet's nest.
The Dean hath felt their ftings before;
And must their malice ne'er give o'er?
Still fwarm and buzz about his nofe?
But Ireland's friends ne'er wanted foes.
A patriot is a dang'rous post,
When wanted by his country most;
Perverfely comes in evil times,
Where virtues are imputed crimes..
This is the ufual excufe of Traulus, when he abufes you to
others without provocation.
His guilt is clear, the proofs are pregnant ;
A traitor to the vices regnant.
What fpirit, fince the world began,
Could always bear to ftrive with man?
Which God pronounce'd he never wou'd,
And foon convince'd them by a flood.
Yet ftill the Dean on freedom raves;
His spirit always ftrives with flaves,
'Tis time at last to spare his ink,
And let them rot, or hang, or sink.
Written in the year 1730.
Raulus of amphibious breed,
Motley fruit of mungrel feed:
By the dam from lordlings fprung,
By the fire exhal'd from dung;
Think on ev'ry vice in both,
Look on him, and fee their growth.
View him on the mother's fide,
Fill'd with falfehood, fpleen, and pride;
Pofitive and over-bearing,
Changing ftill, and still adhering;
Spiteful, peevifh, 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 fwearing;
Judgement weak, and paffion 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 unfaid.
Let me now the vices trace,
From the father's fcoundrel race.
That was bred to kill a cow well:
Hence the greafy clumfy mien
In his drefs and figure feen;
Hence the mean and forded foul,
Like his body, rank and foul;
Hence that wild fufpicious peep,
Like a rogue that fteals a fheep;
Hence he learn'd the butcher's guile,
How to cut your throat and fmile;
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.
Laftly, let his gifts be try'd Borrow'd from the mason's fide : Some perhaps may think him able In the ftate to build a Babel; Could we place him in a station To deftroy the old foundation. True indeed, I fhould 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 most, or male?
What produc'd him, can you tell?
Human race, or imps of hell?
Ueen of wit and beauty, Betty!
Never may the mufe forget ye
How thy face charms ev'ry fhepherd,
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 fpeckled pippin
Shrivel'd with a winter's keeping.
And, thy beauty thus dispatch'd,
Let me praise thy wit unmatch'd.
Sets of phrafes, cut and dry,
Evermore thy tongue fupply.
And thy memory is loaded
With old fcraps from plays exploded :
Stock'd with repartees and jokes,
Suited to all Chriftian folks;
Shreds of wit, and fenfelefs rhymes,
Blunder'd out a thousand times.
Nor wilt thou of gifts be fparing.
Which can ne'er be worfe for wearing,
Picking wit among collegians,
In the playhouse upper regions;
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