Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/417

Rh 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, Reviles all people in his jargon, And sells 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; 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 teas'd, How well are the spectators pleas'd! Who in the motion 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. Rh