He has more goodness in his little finger,
than you
have in your whole body:
My mafter is a perfonable man, and not a
fpindle-fhank'd hoddy-doddy.

And now, whereby I find you would fain
make an excuse,

Because my master one day in anger call'd you goofe;

Which, and I am fure I have been his fervant four years fince October,

And he never call'd me worse than fweetheart, drunk or fober:

Not that I know his reverence was ever concern'd to my knowledge,

Though you and your come-rogues keep him out fo late in your wicked college. You fay you will eat grafs on his grave: a chriftian eat grass !

Whereby you now confefs yourself to be a goose or an ass:

But that's as much as to fay, that my mafter fhould die before ye;

Well, well, that's as God pleases; and I don't believe that's a true ftory:

And fo fay I told you fo, and you may go tell my mafter; what care I?

And I don't care who knows it; 'tis all one to Mary.

Every body knows, that I love to tell truth and shame the devil.

I am but a poor fervant; but I think gentlefolks fhould be civil.

Befides, you found fault with our vittles one day that you was here;

I remember it was on a Tuesday, of all days in the year.

And Saunders the man fays, you are always jefting and mocking:

Mary, faid he (one day, as I was mending my master's stocking,)

My master is fo fond of that minifter that keeps the school--

I thought my mafter a wife man, but that man makes him a fool.

Saunders, faid I, I would rather than a quart of ale

He would come into our kitchen, and I would pin a difh-clout to his tail.

And now I muft go and get Saunders to direct this letter;

For I write but a fad fcrawl; but my fifter Marget the writes better.

Well, but I muft run and make the bed, before my mafter comes from pray'rs; And fee now, it ftrikes ten, and I hear him coming up ftairs:

Whereof

Whereof I cou'd fay more to your verses, if I cou'd write written hand:

And fo I remain, in a civil way, your fervant to command,

MARY.

A

DIALOGUE

BETWEEN

Mad MULLINIX and TIMOTHY *.

Written in 1728.

;

M. Own, 'tis not my bread and butter
I
But prythee, 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 friers---
T. "Twixt you and me, G-- damn the
lyars.

M. The Tories are gone ev'ry man over
To our illuftrious houfe of Hanover;
'From all their conduct this is plain;
And then--

T. G-- damn the lyars again.

*See Tim and the fables, Vol. VII.

Did not an earl but lately vote,
To bring in (I could cut his throat)
Our whole accounts of publick debts?
M. Lord! how this frothy coxcomb

frets!

[afide.]
T. Did not an able ftatefman-bishop
This dang'rous horrid motion dish-up
As popish craft? did he not rail on't?
Shew 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 brangling 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 fhow is paft,
Refolve to ftand it out at laft;
Like Martin Marrall, gaping on
Nor minding when the fong is done.

* Sir Martin Marrall is a character in one of Dryden's comedies. Sir Martin was to ferenade his mistress; but, as he could not play, his man undertook to conceal himself, and do

it for him, while he fhould thrum the inftrument; but this ingenious project miscarried by the knight's continuing his exercife, when the musick was at an end.

When

When all the bees are gone to fettle,
You clatter still your brazen kettle.
The leaders whom you lifted under
Have dropt their arms, and feiz'd the
plunder;

And when the war is paft, 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 fcorn'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 treason;
Thy bufy, never-meaning face,

Thy fcrew'd-up front, thy state-grimace,
Thy formal nods, important fneers,
Thy whifp'rings 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 damn'd a nuisance,
That, when they have you in their eye,
As if the devil drove, they fly.

7. My good friend Mullinix, forbear; I vow to G--, you're too severe :

If