If it could ever yet be known

i

I took advice, except my own,
It fhou'd be yours; but d--- my blood,
I must pursue the publick 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 his ftatue round.
The publick safety, I foresee,
Henceforth depends alone on me;
And while this vital breath I blow
Or from above, or from below,
I'll fputter, fwagger, curfe and rail,
The Tories terror, fcourge, and flail.
M. Tim, you mistake the matter quite;
The Tories! you are their delight;
And should you act a diff'rent part,
Be grave and wife, 'twou'd break their
heart.

Why, Tim, you have a taste I know,
And often fee a puppet-show :
Obferve, the audience is in pain,
While Punch is hid behind the scene;
But, when they hear his rufty voice,
With what impatience they rejoice!

And

And then they value not two ftraws,
How Solomon decides the cause,
Which the true mother, which pretender;
Nor liften to the witch of Endor.

Shou'd Fauftus with the devil behind him
Enter the stage, they never mind him':
If Punch, to fpur their fancy, fhows
In at the door his monftrous nofe,
Then fudden draws it back again ;
O what a pleasure mixt with pain!
You ev'ry 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 Lorrain drew his fword;
Punch roaring run, and running roar'd,
Revil'd all people in his jargon,
And fold 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 roguish tricks;
In every action thrufts his nofe;
The reason 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 wou'd hang him, if they cou'd ;

While, teazing all, by all he's teaz'd,
How well are the fpectators pleas'd!
Who in the motion have no fhare,
But purely come to hear and ftare;
Have no concern for Sabra's fake,
Which gets the better, faint or fnake,
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 ftir up troubl' in;
You wriggle, fidge, and make a rout,
Put all your brother puppets out,
Run on in a perpetual round

To teaze, perplex, difturb, confound,
Intrude with monkey-grin and clatter
To interrupt all ferious matter,
Are grown the nuisance of your clan,
Who hate and fcorn you to a man:
But then the lookers-on, the Tories,
You ftill divert with merry ftories;
They wou'd confent, that all the crew
Were hang'd, before they'd part with
But tell me, Tim, upon the fpot,
By all this coil what haft thou got?

S

you.

If

If Tories must have all the sport,

I fear you'll be disgrac'd at court.

T. Got? D--- my blood, I frank my
letters,

Walk to my place before my betters,
And, fimple as I now ftand here,
Expect in time to be a peer --
Got? D--- me, why I got my will!
Ne'er hold my peace, and ne'er ftand still:
I fart with twenty ladies by;

They call me beaft; and what care I?
I bravely call the Tories Jacks,

And fons of whores --- behind their backs.
But, could you bring me once to think,
That, when I ftrut, and ftare, and stink,
Revile and flander, fume and ftorm,
Betray, make oath, impeach, inform,
With fuch a conftant loyal zeal
To serve myself and common-weal,
And fret the Tories fouls to death,
I did but lose my precious breath,
And when I damn my foul to plague 'em,
Am, as you tell me, but their may-game;
Confume my vitals! they fhould know,
I am not to be treated fo;

I'd rather hang myself by half,
Than give those rafcals cause to laugh.

2

But

But how, my friend, can I endure,
Once fo renown'd, to live obfcure?
No little boys and girls to cry,
There's nimble Tim a paffing by?
No more my dear delightful way tread
Of keeping up a party hatred?
Will none the Tory dogs purfue,
When through the ftreets I cry balloo?
Must all my d--mee's, bloods, and wounds,
Pass only now for empty founds?
Shall Tory rafcals be elected,
Although I fwear them difaffected?
And when I roar, a plot, a plot,
Will our own party mind me not?
So qualified to fwear and lye,
Will they not truft me for a spy?
Dear Mullinix, your good advice
I beg; you fee the cafe is nice:
O! were I equal in renown,

Like thee to please this thankless town!
Or blefs'd with fuch engaging parts
To win the truant school-boys hearts!
Thy virtues meet their juft reward,
Attended by the fable guard.

Charm'd by thy voice the 'prentice drops
The fnow-ball deftin'd at thy chops:
Thy graceful steps, and col'nel's air,
Allure the cinder-picking fair.

S 2

M. No