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And when we execute our plot,
'Tis best to hang her on the spot ;
As all your politicians wise
Dispatch the rogues by whom they rise.
A dialogue between Tom and ROBIN,
Written in the year 1730.
Tom. SAX, Robin, what can Traulus mean
By bellwing thus against the Dean?
Why does he call him paltry scribler,
Papil, and Jacobite, and lib'ler ?
Yet cannot prove a single fact?
5 Robin. Forgive him, Tom, his head is crackt.
Tom. What mischief can the Dean have done him, That Traulus calls for vengeance on him ? Why must he sputter, spawl, and slaver it In vain against the people's fav’rite? Revile that nation-faving paper, Which
the Dean the name of Drapier ? Robin. Why, Tom, I think the case is plain, Party and spleen have turn'd his brain.
Tom. Such friendship never man profess'd, 15 The Dean was never so carefs'd; For Traulus long his rancour nurst, Till, God knows why, at last it burst. That clumsy outside of a porter, How could it thus conceal a courtier ?
Robin. I own, appearances are bad; Yet still insist the man is mad. VOL.VI.
Tom. 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 fill has gratitude and fap'ence,
To spare the folks that give him ha'pence;
Nor in their eyes at random pisles,
But turns aside, like mad Ulysses :
While Traulus all bis 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
At people's heels with frothy chaps ;
Hangs down his head and trops 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 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.
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 his blood,
He only meant it for your good :
His friendship was exaally timd,
He foot before your foes were prim'd,
By this contrivance, Mr. Dean,
I'll bring you off as clean-
Then let him use you e'er fo rough,
'I was 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 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 ftring and wire preside,
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.
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 poft,
When wanted by his country most ;
Perversely comes in evil times,
Where virtues are imputed crimesa
| 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 spirit, since the world began,
Could always bear to srive with man?
Which God pronounc'd, he never would,
And foon convinc'd them by a flood.
Yet still the Dean' on freedom raves;
His spirit always strives with flaves,
'Tis time at last to fpare his ink,
And let them rot, or hang, or fink.
Written in the year 1730.
TRaulus of amphibious breed,
Motly 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 side,
Filld with falsehood, spleen, and pride ;
Positive and over-bearing,
Changing still, and still adhering;
Spiteful, peevith, 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 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 ac 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 fufpicious peep,
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 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 descend !
In bim tell me which prevail,
Female vices moft, or male ?
What produc'd him, can you tell ?
Human race, or imps of hell ?