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. 
Why, Tim, you have a taste you know,
And often see a puppet-show: 
Observe the audience is in pain,
While Punch is hid behind the scene: 
But, when they hear his rusty voice,
With what impatience they rejoice! 
And then they value not two straws,
How Solomon decides the cause,
Which the true mother, which pretender
Nor listen to the witch of Endor. 
Should Faustus with the devil behind him
Enter the stage, they never mind him: 
If Punch, to stir their fancy, shows
In at the door his monstrous nose,
Then sudden draws it back again;
O what a pleasure mixt with pain! 
You every moment think an age,
Till he appears upon the stage: 
And first his bum you see him clap
Upon the Queen of Sheba’s lap: 
The Duke of Lorraine drew his sword;
Punch roaring ran, and running roar’d,
Reviled all people in his jargon,
And sold the King of Spain a bargain;
St. George himself he plays the wag on,
And mounts astride upon the dragon;
He gets a thousand thumps and kicks,
Yet cannot leave his roguish tricks;