Thus, Tim, philosophers suppose,
The world consists of puppetshows;
Where petulant conceited fellows
Perform the part of Punchinelloes:
So at this booth, which we call Dublin,
Tim, thou'rt the Punch to stir up trouble in;
You wriggle, fidge, and make a rout,
Put all your brother puppets out,
Run on in a perpetual round,
To tease, perplex, disturb, confound;
Intrude with monkey grin and clatter
To interrupt all serious matter;
Are grown the nuisance of your clan,
Who hate and scorn you to a man:
But then the lookers on, the tories,
You still divert with merry stories;
They would consent that all the crew
Were hang'd, before they'd part with you.
But tell me, Tim, upon the spot,
By all this toil what hast thou got?
If tories must have all the sport,
I fear you'll be disgrac'd at court.
T. Got? D—n my blood! I frank my letters,
Walk to my place before my betters;
And, simple as I now stand here,
Expect in time to be a peer —
Got? D—n me! why I got my will!
Ne'er hold my peace, and ne'er stand still:
I fart with twenty ladies by;
They call me beast; and what care I?
I bravely call the tories Jacks,
And sons of whores — behind their backs.
But, could you bring me once to think,
That when I strut, and stare, and stink,
