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

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I am but a poor fervant; but I think tlefolks fhould be civil. Befides, you found fault with our vittles one day that you was here;

I remember it was ona 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 mafter is fo fond of that minifter that keeps the fchool—

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 dish-clout to his tail.

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

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

Well, but I must 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 handed of And fo I remain, in a civil way, your feryant to command,

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M. Own, 'tis not my bread and butter; 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.

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To e Tories are gone ev'ry man over

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

Did not an earl but lately vote, d
To bring in (I could cut his throat)
e accounts of publick debts?

Our whole how this frothy coxcomb

frets!

T. Did not an able statesman-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 Wbig and Tory

Are ftale and worn as Troy-town ftory:
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 mifcarried by the knight's continuing his exercife, when the mufick was at an end.

When

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

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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)

T

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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

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Of all thy party through the nation: LA
Thy peevish and perpetual teazing
With plots, and Jacobites, and treafon;
Thy bufy, never-meaning face,

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Thy fcrew'd-up front, thy ftate-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 ftink)
Have made thy prefence, in a true fenfe,
To thy own fide fo damn'd a nuisance,
That, when they have you in their eye,
As if the devil drove, they fly.

T. My good friend Mullinix, forbear; I I vow to G--, you're too feverede

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If

If it could ever yet be known

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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 fafety, 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 tafte 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

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