In every action thrusts his nose;
The reason why, no mortal knows: 
In doleful scenes that break our heart,
Punch comes like you, and lets a fart. 
There’s not a puppet made of wood,
But what would hang him if they could;
While, teasing all, by all he’s teased,
How well are the spectators pleased! 
Who in the motion[6] have no share,
But purely come to hear and stare;
Have no concern for Sabra’s sake,
Which gets the better, saint or snake,
Provided Punch (for there’s the jest)
Be soundly maul’d, and plague the rest. 
  Thus, Tim, philosophers suppose,
The world consists of puppet-shows;
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 disgraced 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,
Revile and slander, fume and storm,
Betray, make oath, impeach, inform,
With such a constant loyal zeal
To serve myself and commonweal,
And fret the Tories’ souls to death,
I did but lose my precious breath;
And, when I damn my soul to plague ’em,
Am, as you tell me, but their May-game;
Consume my vitals! they shall know,
I am not to be treated so;
I’d rather hang myself by half,
Than give those rascals cause to laugh. 
  But how, my friend, can I endure,
Once so renown’d, to live obscure? 
No little boys and girls to cry,
“There’s nimble Tim a-passing by!”
No more my dear delightful way tread
Of keeping up a party hatred? 
Will none the Tory dogs pursue,
When through the streets I cry halloo? 
Must all my d—­n me’s! bloods and wounds! 
Pass only now for empty sounds? 
Shall Tory rascals be elected,
Although I swear them disaffected? 
And when I roar, “a plot, a plot!”
Will our own party mind me not? 
So qualified to swear and lie,