ELANY reports it, and he has a fhrewd tongue,
That we both act the part of the clown and
cow-dung;
We lye cramming ourfelves, and are ready to burft,
Yet ftill are no wifer than we were at firft.
Pudet hæc opprobria, I freely muft tell ye,
Et dici potuiffe, et non potuisse refelli.
Though Delany advis'd you to plague me no longer,
You reply and rejoin like Hoadly of Bangor.
I must now, at one fitting, pay off my old fcore;
How many to anfwer? One, two, three, four.
But, because the three former are long ago past,
I fhall, for method fake, begin with the laft.
You treat me like a boy that knocks down his foe,
Who, ere t'other gets up, demands the rifing b'ow.
Yet I know a young rogue, that, thrown flat on the field,
Would, as he lay under, cry out, Sirrah! yield.
So the French, when our Generals foundly did pay them:
Went triumphant to church, and fang ftoutly Te Deum.
So the famous Tom Leigh, when quite run aground,
Comes off by out-laughing the company round.
In every vile pamphlet you 'll read the fame fancies,
Having thus overthrown all our further advances.
* The humour of this poem is partly loft, by the impoffibility of printing it left-handed as it was written.
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 tyc :
As a good quiet foul, who no mifchief 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 first take you up, and then take you down:
And, 'tis your own cafe, for you never can wound
The worst dunce in your school, till he 's heav'd from
the ground.
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 bufinefs. 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 Jason, that 's enough.
Oh! could we tame yon vatchful* Dragon,
Old Jafon would have lefs to brag on.
TO DR. SHERIDAN. 1718.
WHATE'ER your predeceffors taught us,
I have a great efteem for Plautus;
And think your boys may gather there-hence
More wit and humour than from Terence.
But as to comic Ariftophanes,
The rogue too vicious and too prophane is.
I went in vain to look for Eupolis
Down in the Strand *, just 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 affes.
Poets, in those days, us'd to venture high;
But these are loft full many a century.
Thus you may fee, dear friend, ex pede hence,
My judgement of the old Comedians.
Proceed to Tragicks: first, 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 best piece is,
For aught he knows, as bad as Thespis's;
And that a woman, in these tragedies,
Commonly fpeaking, but a fad jade is.
The fact may be true; but the rhyme cost me fome trouble. SwIFT.
At least, I'm well affur'd, that no folk lays
The weight on him they do on Sophocles.
But, above all, I prefer Æfchylus,
Whose moving touches, when they please, kill us.
And now I find my Muse 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?
STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY,
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 firft I faw thee at fixteen,
The brightest virgin on the
So little is thy form declin'd;
Made up fo largely in thy mind.
Oh, would it please the gods to fplit
Thy beauty, fize, and years, and wit!
No 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 fize.
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.
DEAR 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 histories,
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, Sır?
"Not I, by my troth, Sir." Then read it again, Sir.
The reason I send you these lines of rhymes double
Is purely through pity, to fave you the trouble
Of thinking two hours for a rhyme as you did last;
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 steed is whipp'd, fpurr'd, bastinaded.
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.
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