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My offers of peace you ill understood:
Friend Sheridan, when will you know your own good? 'Twas to teach you in modefter language your duty;
For, were you a dog, I could not be rude t'ye :
As a good quiet foul, who no mischief intends
To a quarrelfome fellow, cries, Let us be friends.
But we like Antæus and Hercules fight,
The oftener you fall, the oftener you write;
And I'll ufe you as he did that overgrown clown,
I'll firft take you up, and then take you down:
And, 'tis your own cafe, for you never can wound
The worst dunce in your fchool, till he 's heav'd from
I beg your pardon for ufing my left-hand, but I was in great hafte, and the other hand was employed at the fame time in writing fome letters of business. —I will fend you the reft when I have leifure: but pray come to dinner with the company you met here laft.
A MOTTO for Mr. JASON HASARD, WOOLLEN-DRAPER in DUBLIN; Whofe Sign was the GOLDEN-FLEECE.
ASON, the valiant prince of Greece,
From Colchos brought the Golden Fleece:
We comb the wool, refine the stuff,
For modern Jafon, that 's enough.
Oh! could we tame yon watchful* Dragon,
Old Jafon would have lefs to brag on.
WHATE'ER your predeceffors taught us,
I have a great esteem for Plautus ;
And think your boys may gather there-hence
More wit and humour than from Terence.
But as to comic Aristophanes,
The rogue too vicious and too prophane is.
I went in vain to look for Eupolis
Down in the Strand*, juft where the New Pole is;
For I can tell you one thing, that I can
(You will not find it in the Vatican).
He and Cratinus us'd, as Horace fays,
To take his greatest grandees for alles.
Poets, in thofe days, us'd to venture high;
But thefe are loft full many a century.
Thus you may fee, dear friend, ex pede hence,
My judgement of the old Comedians.
Proceed to Tragicks: firft, Euripides
(An author where I fometimes dip a-days)
Is rightly cenfur'd by the Stagirite,
Who fays, his numbers do not fadge aright.
A friend of mine that author defpifes
So much, he fwears the very beft piece is,
For aught he knows, as bad as Thefpis's;
And that a woman, in thefe tragedies,
Commonly fpeaking, but a fad jade is. -
*The fact may be true; but the rhyme coft me fome
At least, I'm well affur'd, that no folk lays
The weight on him they do on Sophocles.
But, above all, I prefer
Whose moving touches, when they please, kill us.
And now I find my Mufe but ill able,
To hold out longer in Triffyllable.
I chose those rhymes out for their difficulty;
Will you return as hard ones if I call t'ye?
MARCH 13, 1718-19.
TELLA this day is thirty-four,
(We fha' n't difpute a year or more):
However, Stella, be not troubled,
Although thy fize and years are doubled,
Since first I faw thee at fixteen,
The brighteft virgin on the
So little is thy form declin'd;
Made up fo largely in thy mind.
Oh, would it please the gods to split
Thy beauty, fize, and years, and wit!
age could furnish out a pair
Of nymphs fo graceful, wife, and fair;
With half the luftre of your eyes,
With half your wit, your years, and size.
And then, before it grew too late,
How should I beg of gentle Fate
(That either nymph might have her swain)
To fplit my worship too in twain!
DR. SHERIDAN TO DR. SWIFT. 1719.
EAR Dean, fince in cruxes and puns you and I deal,
Pray why is a woman a fieve and a riddle?
"Tis a thought that came into my noddle this morning, In bed as I lay, Sir, a-toffing and turning.
You'll find, if you read but a few of your hiftories,
All women as Eve, all women are mysteries.
To find out this riddle I know you 'll be eager,
And make every one of the fex a Belphegor.
But that will not do, for I mean to commend them:
I fwear without jeft I an honour intend them.
In a fieve, Sir, their antient extraction I quite tell,
In a riddle I give you their power and their title.
This I told you before: do you know what I mean, Sir?
"Not I, by my troth, Sir." Then read it again, Sir.
The reafon I fend you thefe lines of rhymes double
Is purely through pity, to fave you the trouble
Of thinking two hours for a rhyme as you did laft;
When your Pegafus canter'd it triple, and rid faft.
As for my little nag, which I keep at Parnaffus,
With Phoebus's leave, to run with his affes,
He goes flow and fure, and he never is jaded,
While your fiery fteed is whipp'd, fpurr'd, baftinaded.
THE DEAN'S ANSWER.
N reading your letter alone in my hackney,
Your damnable riddle my poor brains did rack nigh. And when with much labour the matter I crackt,
I found you mistaken in matter of fact.
A woman's no fieve (for with that you begin),
Because the lets out more than e'er fhe takes in.
And that the 's a riddle, can never be right,
For a riddle is dark, but a woman is light.
But, grant her a fieve, I can say fomething archer:
Pray what is a man? he's a fine linen searcher.
Now tell me a thing that wants interpretation,
What name for a* maid, was the first man's damnation?
If your worship will please to explain me this rebus,
I fwear from henceforward you fhall be my
From my hackney-coach, Sept. 11,
1719, paft 12 at noon.
STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY, 1720.
LL travelers at firft incline
Where-e'er they fee the faireft fign;
And, if they find the chambers neat,
And like the liquor and the meat,
Will call again, and recommend
The Angel-inn to every friend.
What though the painting grows decay'd,
The house will never lofe its trade :
Nay, though the treacherous tapfter Thomas
Hangs a new Angel two doors from us,
As fine as daubers' hands can make it,
In hopes that strangers may miftake it,