Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/415

 M. These wrangling jars of whig and tory, Are stale and worn as Troy-town story: The wrong, 'tis certain, you were both in, And now you find you fought for nothing. Your faction, when their game was new, Might want such noisy fools as you; But you, when all the show is past, Resolve to stand it out the last; Like Martin Marrall, gaping on, Not minding when the song is done. 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 seiz'd the plunder; And when the war is past, you come To rattle in their ears your drum: And as that hateful hideous Grecian Thersites (he was your relation) Was more abhorr'd and scorn'd by those With whom he serv'd, 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,