And when we execute our plot,
"Tis beft to hang her on the spot ;
As all your politicians wife
Dispatch the rogues by whom they rise.
TRAUL U S.
A dialogue between Toм and ROBIN.
The first part.
Written in the year 1730.
Tom. SAY, Robin, what can Traulus mean
By bell'wing thus against the Dean?
Why does he call him paltry scribler,
Papif, and Jacobite, and lib'ler?
Yet cannot prove a single fact?
Robin. Forgive him, Tom, his head is crackt.
Tom. What mifchief can the Dean have done him,
That Traulus calls for vengeance on him?
Why must he sputter, fpawl, and slaver it
In vain against the people's fav'rite?
Revile that nation-faving paper,
the Dean the name of Drapier?
Robin. Why, Tom, I think the cafe is plain,
Party and fpleen have turn'd his brain.
Tom. Such friendship never man profefs'd,
The Dean was never fo carefs'd;
For Traulus long his rancour nurst,
Till, God knows why, at last it burst.
That clumfy outside of a porter,
"How could it thus conceal a courtier ?
Robin. I own, appearances are bad;
Yet ftill infift the man is mad.
Tom. Yet many a wretch in Bedlam knows
How to diftinguish friends from foes ;
And tho' perhaps among the rout,
He wildly flings his filth about ;
He ftill has gratitude and fap'ence,
To fpare the folks that give him ha'pence;
Nor in their eyes at random piffes,
But turns afide, like mad Ulyffes :
While Traulus all his ordure fcatters,
To foul the man he chiefly flatters.
Whence come thefe 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 trops 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 firft 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 tho' you hear him ftut-tut-tut-ter,
He barks as fast as he can utter.
He prates in spite of all impediment,
While none believes, that what he faid 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-
He only meant it for your good: ·
His friendship was exactly tim'd,
He flot 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 tho' he sputter thro' a feffion,
It never makes the leaft impreffion :
Whate'er he speaks for madnefs goes,
With no effect on friends or foes.
Tom. The scrubbiest cur in all the pack
Can fet 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 string 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 can raife a hornet's neft.
The Dean hath felt their stings before;
And muft 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 poft,
When wanted by his country most;
Perverfely comes in evil times,
Where virtues are imputed crimes.
This is the ufual 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 fpirit, fince the world began,
Could always bear to firive with man?
Which God pronounc'd, he never would,
And foon convinc'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 fink.
Written in the year 1730.
Raulus of amphibious breed,
Motly fruit of mungrel seed;
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, peevish, 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;
Judgment weak, and paffion ftrong,
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.
Who could give the looby such airs?
Were they mafons, were they butchers?
Herald, lend the mufe an answer
From his atavus and grandfire:
This was dex'trous at his trowel,
That was bred to kill a cow well :
Hence the greafy clumfy mien
In his dress and figure feen;
Hence the mean and fordid foul,
Like his body, rank and foul;
Hence that wild fufpicious peep,
Like a rogue that steals a sheep;
Hence he learn'd the butcher's guile,
IN him tell me which prevail,
Female vices moft, or male?
What produc'd him, can you tell?
Human race, or imps of hell?
|