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 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, Sır?
“Not I, by my troth, Sir.". Then read it again, Sir.
The reason I send 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 last;
When your Pegasus 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.

IN 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.

M 4

A wo

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 sieve, I can fay fomething archer:
Pray what is a man? he's a fine linen 'earcher.

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 shall be my Phoebus.
From my hackney-coach, Sept. 11,
1719, past 12 at noon.

STELLA'S BIRTH-DAY, 1720

A

LL travelers at firft incline

Where-e'er they see 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 tapster Thomas
Hangs a new Angel two doors from us,
As fine as daubers' hands can make it,
In hopes that strangers may mistake it,

* Vir Gin, Man-trap.

We

See at her levee crouding fwains,

Whom Stella freely entertains

With breeding, humour, wit, and fenfe;
And puts them but to fmall expence;

Their mind fo plentifully fills,
And makes fuch reasonable bills,
So little gets for what the gives
We really wonder how the lives!
And, had her ftock been lefs, no doubt
She must have long ago run out.

Then who can think we 'll quit the place,
When Doll hangs out a newer face?
Or ftop and light at Cloe's head,
With fcraps and leavings to be fed? -
Then, Cloe, ftill go on to prate
Of thirty-fix, and thirty-eight;
Purfue your trade of feandal-picking,
Your hints, that Stella is no chicken ;:

Your innuendos, when

you

tell us,

That Stella loves to talk with fellows

And

And let me warn you to believe

A truth, for which your foul should grieve;
That, should you live to see the day
When Stella's locks must all be grey,
When age must print a furrow'd trace
On every feature of her face;

Though you, and all your senseless tribe,
Could art, or time, or nature bribe,
To make you look like Beauty's Queen,
And hold for ever at fifteen ;

No bloom of youth can ever blind

The cracks and wrinkles of your mind:
All men of fenfe will pass your door,
And croud to Stella's at fourscore.

то
TO

STELLA.

Who collected and transcribed his POEMS. 1720,

As

S, when a lofty pile is rais'd,

We never hear the workmen prais'd,
Who bring the lime, or place the stones :
But all admire Inigo Jones :

So, if this pile of scatter'd rhymes
Should be approv'd in after-times;
If it both pleases and endures,
The merit and the praise are yours.

Thou, Stella, wert no longer young,
When first for thee my harp was strung,
Without one word of Cupid's darts,
*Of killing eyes, or bleeding hearts:

With Friendship and Esteem poffest,

I ne'er admitted Love a guest.

In all the habitudes of life,

The friend, the miftrefs, and the wife,
Variety we still pursue,

In pleasure seek for fomething new;
Or elfe, comparing with the reft,
Take comfort, that our own is beft;
The best we value by the worst
(As tradesmen fhew their trash at first) :
But his purfuits were at an end,
Whom Stella chuses for a friend.
A Poet ftarving in a garret,
Conning all topicks like a parrot,
Invokes his Mistress and his Muse,
And stays at home for want of fhoes :
Should but his Muse descending drop
A flice of bread and mutton-chop;
Or kindly, when his credit's out,
Surprize him with a pint of ftout;
Or patch his broken ftocking-foals,
Or fend him in a peck of coals;
Exalted in his mighty mind,

He flies, and leaves the stars behind:
Counts all his labours amply paid,
Adores her for the timely aid.

Or, fhould a porter make enquiries

For Chloe, Sylvia, Phyllis, Iris ;
Be told the lodging, lane, and fign,

The bowers that hold those nymphs divine;