Traulus. Part I

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN TOM AND ROBIN[1]     1730      Tom.     Say, Robin, what can Traulus[2] mean     By bellowing thus against the Dean?     Why does he call him paltry scribbler,     Papist, and Jacobite, and libeller,     Yet cannot prove a single fact?      Robin. Forgive him, Tom: his head is crackt.      T. What mischief can the Dean have done him,     That Traulus calls for vengeance on him?     Why must he sputter, spawl, and slaver it     In vain against the people's favourite?     Revile that nation-saving paper,     Which gave the Dean the name of Drapier?      R. Why, Tom, I think the case is plain;     Party and spleen have turn'd his brain.      T. Such friendship never man profess'd,     The Dean was never so caress'd;     For Traulus long his rancour nursed,     Till, God knows why, at last it burst.     That clumsy outside of a porter,     How could it thus conceal a courtier?      R. I own, appearances are bad;     Yet still insist the man is mad.      T. Yet many a wretch in Bedlam knows     How to distinguish friends from foes;     And though perhaps among the rout     He wildly flings his filth about,     He still has gratitude and sap'ence,     To spare the folks that give him ha'pence;     Nor in their eyes at random pisses,     But turns aside, like mad Ulysses;     While Traulus all his ordure scatters     To foul the man he chiefly flatters.     Whence comes these inconsistent fits?      R. Why, Tom, the man has lost his wits.      T, Agreed: and yet, when Towzer snaps     At people's heels, with frothy chaps,     Hangs down his head, and drops his tail,     To say 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 first harangued,     I wonder why he was not hang'd;     For of the two, without dispute,     Towzer's the less offensive brute.      R, Tom, you mistake the matter quite;     Your barking curs will seldom bite     And though you hear him stut-tut-tut-ter,     He barks as fast as he can utter.     He prates in spite of all impediment,     While none believes that what he said he meant;     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 - n his blood!     He only meant it for your good:     His friendship was exactly timed,     He shot before your foes were primed:     By this contrivance, Mr. Dean,     By G - ! I'll bring you off as clean - "[3]     Then let him use you e'er so rough,     "'Twas all for love," and that's enough.     But, though he sputter through a session,     It never makes the least impression:     Whate'er he speaks for madness goes,     With no effect on friends or foes.      T. The scrubbiest cur in all the pack     Can set the mastiff on your back.     I own, his madness is a jest,     If that were all. But he's possest     Incarnate with a thousand imps,     To work whose ends his madness pimps;     Who o'er each string and wire preside,     Fill every pipe, each motion guide;     Directing every vice we find     In Scripture to the devil assign'd;     Sent from the dark infernal region,     In him they lodge, and make him legion.     Of brethren he's a false accuser;     A slanderer, traitor, and seducer;     A fawning, base, trepanning liar;     The marks peculiar of his sire.     Or, grant him but a drone at best;     A drone can raise a hornet's nest.     The Dean had felt their stings before;     And must their malice ne'er give o'er?     Still swarm and buzz about his nose?     But Ireland's friends ne'er wanted foes.     A patriot is a dangerous post,     When wanted by his country most;     Perversely comes in evil times,     Where virtues are imputed crimes.     His guilt is clear, the proofs are pregnant;     A traitor to the vices regnant.         What spirit, since the world began,     Could always bear to strive with man?     Which God pronounced he never would,     And soon convinced them by a flood.     Yet still the Dean on freedom raves;     His spirit always strives with slaves.     'Tis time at last to spare his ink,     And let them rot, or hang, or sink.