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WELL, if ever I faw fuch another man fince my

mother bound my head!

You a gentleman! -marry come up, I wonder where you were bred.

I am fure fuch words do not become a man of your

cloth;

I would not give fuch language to a dog, faith and

troth.

Yes, you call'd my master a knave: fie, Mr Sheridan!

'tis a fhame

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For a parfon, who fhould know better things, to come out with fuch a name:

Knave in your teeth, Mr Sheridan! 'tis both a shame and a fin;

And the Dean my mafter is an honefter man than you and all your kin:

He has more goodness in his little finger, than you have in your whole body:

My master is a personable man, and not a spindlefhank'd hoddy-doddy.

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And now, whereby I find you would fain make an

excufe,

Because my mafter one day, in anger, called you goofe;

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

And he never call'd me worse than fweet-heart, drunk

or fober :

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

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Tho' 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 grafs!

Whereby you now confefs yourself to be a goofe or an afs:

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

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

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

And I don't care who knows it; 'tis all one to Mary. Every body knows, that I love to tell truth, and fhame the devil.

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

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

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I remember it was on a Teufday, 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 mafter's stocking),

My mafter is fo fond of that minifter that keeps the fchool

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I thought my master 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 difhclout to his tail.

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

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

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Well, but I muit run and make the bed, before my mafter comes from pray'rs; And tee now, it strikes ten, and I hear him coming up flairs:

Whereof I could fay more to your verses, if I could

write written hand:

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

mand,

MARY.

A

A DIALOGUE between Mad MULLI

NIX and TIMOTHY.

M.

I

Written in the year 1728.

Own, 'tis not my bread and butter ;
But pr'ythee, 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 priesis and friars

T. 'Twixt you and me, G-damn the liars.
M. The Tories are gone ev'ry man over
To our illustrious house of Hanover;
From all their conduct this is plain;
And then-

T.

-G-damn the liars again.

Did not an Earl but lately vote,

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To bring in (I could cut his throat)

Our whole accounts of public debts?

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M. Lord! how this frothy coxcomb frets! [afide.
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 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.

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Your faction, when their game was new,

Might want fuch noify fools as you;
But you, when all the show is past,
Refolve to stand it out at laft;
Like Martin Marall, gaping on*,
Nor minding when the song is done.
When all the bees are gone to fettle,

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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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With plots, and Jacobites, and treason;
Thy bufy, never-meaning face,

Thy fcrew'd up front, thy ftate-grimace,

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Thy formal nods, important fneers,

Thy whifp'rings foifted in all ears,

(Which are, whatever you may think, But nonfenfe wrapt up in a stink),

Have made thy presence, in a true sense,
To thy own fide fo damn'd a nuisance,
That when they have
in their eye,
As if the devil drove, they fly.

you

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* Sir Martin Marall 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 projec mifcarried, by the knight's continuing his exercise when the mufic was at an end. Huwkef.

T. My good friend Mullinix, forbear;

I vow to G-, you're too fevere :

If it could ever yet be known
I took advice, except my own,
It should be yours: but d
I must pursue the public good:
The faction (is it not notorious?)
Keck at the memory of glorious :
'Tis true; nor need I to be told,

my blood,

My quondam friends are grown fo cold,
That fcarce a creature can be found
To prance with me his ftatue round.
The public 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.

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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, 'twould break their heart.

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Why, Tim, you have a taste I know,

And often fee a puppet-/bow:

Obferve, the audience is in pain,
While Punch is hid behind the scene;

But when they hear his rufty voice,

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With what impatience they rejoice!
And then they value not two straws,
How Solomon decides the cause,

Which the true mother, which pretender;
Nor liften to the witch of Endor.

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Should Fauftus, with the devil behind him,
Enter the stage, they never mind him :
If Punch, to spur their fancy, fhows
In at the door his monftrous nose,

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