I ILLINOIS

Production Note
Digital Rare Book Collections
Rare Book & Manuscript Library
University of Illinois Library at
Urbana-Champaign
2020
 
 
 

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T O M.
AY, Robin, what can Tmulm mean
By bell’wing thus againflthe DJ»?
Why does he call him paultrySeribler,
Papif}, and jacolyite, and Lib’h’er ?
Yet cannot prove a fingle Faéh
R O B I N.
Forgive him, Tom, his Head is craekt.
T O M;
What Mifchief can the D—-—- have done him,
That Ynmlm calls for Vengeance on him?
Why mui‘t he (putter, fpaul and firmer it
In vain, againf’c the People’s Fav’ritc P
Revile that Nation-{wing Paper,
\Vhich gave the Dam» I. he L lameef Draper?
{{OBII‘V.

 

  
 
    
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
C 4 )
‘ R O B I N.
Why Tom, I think the Cafe 18 plain,
Party and Spleen have turn’d his Blain,
T O M.
Such Friendihip never Man profel’c,
The D was never {‘0 carefi:
' For Tmulm long his Rancour nurfl,
’Till, God knows why, at lafl: it burfl.‘
That clumfy outfide of a Porter,
How could it thus conceal a Courtier? .
R o E IN. r " 2
I own, Appeazances are bad, ‘
But fizll infift the Man IS mad.
. T O M.
Yet many a Wreztch 1n Bedlam, knows,
HOW to dzfiinguil‘n Frienfis from Foes;
And the pmhaps among the Rout,
He w ildly flings his Filth about,
He flill has Gratitude and Sap’ once,
To {p226 the Folks that gave him H2'2 pe nce
N02, in theix Eyes at Random piflEs,
Buc tums a22de like mad U/jflt‘s’f: .2
\Vhile Tim/21m all his Ordure 2‘:c22:texs. 2
To foul the M222 he chiefly 212222323
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Whence come thcfe inconfii’cent Fits?
R O B I N.
Why Yam, the Man has 10?: his Wits!
T O M.
Agreed. And yet, when Towzer {naps
At People’s Heels with frochy Chaps;
Hang’s down his Head, and drops his Tail,
To fay he’s mad will not avail :
The Neighbours all cry, S/aoct [aim dead,
Hang, Drawn, or knock him on the Head.
So, Traulm when he firfl; harangu’d,
I wonder why he was not hang’d :
For of then-yo, without Difputc,
Towur’s the lefs oEenfive Brute.
R O B I N.
Tom, you miflake the Matter quite;
Your banking Curs will feldom bite;
And, though you hear him Scut-tut-wt‘ter,
H6 barks as fafl: as he can utter.
He plates in .Spight of allilmpediment
While none believes that what he laid he
meant ;
Puts in his Finger and his Thumb,
To gi'ope for Worde§ and ow; they Comap
ac

 

 

 
( 6 >.
He calls you Rogue 5 There’s nothing in it,
He fawns upon you in a Minute.
Begs Leave to rail, bur: d n his Blood, ‘
He only meant it For your Good.
His Friendlhip was exafitly tim’d, ’
He {hot before your Foes were prim’d :
By this Contrivanee Mr. Dm—
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.
For let him {putter thro’ a S--fl"~-n, '
It never makes the leafl Impreflion.
What e’er hefpeaks for Madnelé goes,
With no E3158: on Friends or Foes.
’T O M.

The ferubefl: Cur in all the Pack
Can fet the Mafiifl‘s on your Back.
,I own, his Madnefs is a left,
If that were all. But he’s pofl'efs’t:
Incarnate with a thoul'and Imps, .
Tar work whole Ends, his Madnefs pimps. ‘
Who o’er each String and ‘Wire prefide,
Fill ev’ry Pipe, each Motion guide.

 

 

 
 
 
   

Direéting
    

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Direé’ting ev’ry Vice we find
In Scripture, to the Dcv’l aifign’d:
Sent from the Dark infernal Region
In him they lodge, and make him Legion.
Of Brethren he’s a faZ/é dccuflr,
A Sland’rer, Traytor and Seducer;
A fawning, bale, trepaning Lyar,
The Mai-ks peculiar of his Sire.

Or, grant him but a Drone at bei’t:
A Drone can raife a Hornet’s Nef’t :
The D hath felt their’Stings’befores
And, muli their Malice ne’er give o’er ?
Still {warm and buzz about his Nofe P
But Irelaed’s Friends ne’er wanted Foes.
A Patriot is a dang’tous Pelt
When wanted by his Country mofl;
Perverfely-comes in evil Times,
Where "Virtues are imputed Crimes,
His Guilt is clear, the Proofs are pregnant,
A T raytor to the Vices regnant.

What Spirit fince the World began,
Could airway: bear to Siriwe with Man?

 

Which

 
( 3 )
Which God pronounc’d he never wou’d,
And foon convinc’d them by a Floud.
Yet flill the D---- on Freedom raves,
His Spirit always firives with Slaves.
’Tis Time at laf’c [O [pare his Ink,
And let them rot, or hang, or, flink.

F1 N I s‘

 

 
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