_M_. I own, 'tis not my bread and butter, But prithee, 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 friars---- _T_. 'Twixt you and me, G--d d--n the liars! _M_. The Tories are gone every man over To our illustrious house of Hanover; From all their conduct this is plain; And then---- _T_. G--d d--n the liars again! Did not an earl but lately vote, To bring in (I could cut his throat) Our whole accounts of public debts? _M_. Lord, how this frothy coxcomb frets! [_Aside._ _T_. Did not an able statesman bishop This dangerous horrid motion dish up As Popish craft? did he not rail on't? Show fire and fagot 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 wrangling jars of Whig and Tory, Are stale and worn as Troy-town story: 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 such noisy fools as you; But you, when all the show is past, Resolve to stand it out the last; Like Martin Marall,[2] gaping on, Not minding when the song is done. When all the bees are gone to settle, You clatter still your brazen kettle. The leaders whom you listed under, Have dropt their arms, and seized the plunder; And when the war is past, you come To rattle in their ears your drum: And as that hateful hideous Grecian, Thersites,[3] (he was your relation,) Was more abhorr'd and scorn'd by those With whom he served, than by his foes; So thou art grown the detestation Of all thy party through the nation: Thy peevish and perpetual teasing With plots, and Jacobites, and treason, Thy busy never-meaning face, Thy screw'd-up front, thy state grimace, Thy formal nods, important sneers, Thy whisperings foisted in all ears, (Which are, whatever you may think, But nonsense wrapt up in a stink,) Have made thy presence, in a true sense, To thy own side, so d--n'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 vow to G--, you're too severe: If it could ever yet be known I took advice, except my own, It should be yours; but, d--n my blood! I must pursue the public good: The faction (is it not notorious?) [4]Keck at the memory of Glorious:[5] 'Tis true; nor need I to be told, My _quondam_ friends are grown so cold, That scarce a creature can be found To prance with me his statue round. The public safety, I foresee, Henceforth depends alone on me; And while this vital breath I blow, Or from above or from below, I'll sputter, swagger, curse, and rail, The Tories' terror, scourge, and flail. _M_. Tim, you mistake the matter quite; The Tories! you are their delight; And should you act a different part, Be grave and wise, 'twould break their heart.