Dull uniformity in fools I hate, who gape and sneer by rules; You, Mullinix, and slobbering C---- Who every day and hour the same are That vulgar talent I despise Of pissing in the rabble's eyes. And when I listen to the noise Of idiots roaring to the boys; To better judgment still submitting, I own I see but little wit in: Such pastimes, when our taste is nice, Can please at most but once or twice. But then consider Dick, you'll find His genius of superior kind; He never muddles in the dirt, Nor scours the streets without a shirt; Though Dick, I dare presume to say, Could do such feats as well as they. Dick I could venture everywhere, Let the boys pelt him if they dare, He'd have them tried at the assizes For priests and jesuits in disguises; Swear they were with the Swedes at Bender, And listing troops for the Pretender. But Dick can f--t, and dance, and frisk, No other monkey half so brisk; Now has the speaker by his ears, Next moment in the House of Peers; Now scolding at my Lady Eustace, Or thrashing Baby in her new stays.[1] Presto! begone; with t'other hop He's powdering in a barber's shop; Now at the antichamber thrusting His nose, to get the circle just in; And damns his blood that in the rear He sees a single Tory there: Then woe be to my lord-lieutenant, Again he'll tell him, and again on't[2] [Footnote 1: "Dick Tighe and his wife lodged over against us; and he has been seen, out of our upper windows, beating her two or three times; ... I am told she is the most urging, provoking devil that ever was born; and he a hot whiffling puppy, very apt to resent."--Journal to Stella, "Prose Works," ii, 229.--_W. E. B._] [Footnote 2: Farquhar, who inscribed his play of the "Inconstant" to Richard Tighe, has painted him in very different colours from those of the Dean's satirical pencil. Yet there may be discerned, even in that dedication, the oulines of a light mercurial character, capable of being represented as a coxcomb or fine gentleman, as should suit the purpose of the writer who was disposed to immortalize him.--_Scott_.] 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.