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TO THE DEAN OF ST PATRICK'S, *

IN ANSWER TO HIS LEFT-HANDED LETTER.

SINCE your poetic prancer is turn'd into Cancer, I'll tell you at once, Sir, I'm now not your man, Sir; For pray, Sir, what pleasure in fighting is found With a coward, who studies to traverse his ground? When I drew forth my pen, with your pen you ran

back;

But I found out the way to your den by its track : From thence the black monster I drew, o' my con

science,

And so brought to light what before was stark non

sense.

When I with my right hand did stoutly pursue,
You turn'd to your left, and you writ like a Jew;
Which, good Mister Dean, I can't think so fair,
Therefore turn about to the right, as you were ;
Then if with true courage your ground you maintain,
My fame is immortal, when Jonathan's slain :
Who's greater by far than great Alexander,
As much as a teal surpasses a gander;
As much as a game-cock's excell'd by a sparrow ;
As much as a coach is below a wheelbarrow :
As much and much more as the most handsome man
Of all the whole world is exceeded by Dan.

T. SHERIDAN.

This was written with that hand which in others is commonly called the left-hand.

* Whimsical Medley, p. 352.

Orr have I been by poets told,
That, poor Jonathan, thou grow'st old.

Alas, thy numbers falling all,

Poor Jonathan, how they do fall !

Thy rhymes, which whilom made thy pride swell,

Now jingle like a rusty bridle:

Thy verse, which ran both smooth and sweet,
Now limp upon their gouty feet :
Thy thoughts, which were the true sublime,
Are humbled by the tyrant, Time :
Alas! what cannot Time subdue ?
Time has reduc'd my wine and you;
Emptied my casks, and clipp'd your wings,
Disabled both in our main springs;
So that of late we two are grown
The jest and scorn of all the town.
But yet, if my advice be ta'en,
We two may be as great again;
I'll send you wings, and send me wine:
Then you will fly, and I shall shine.

This was written with my right-hand, at the same time with the other.

How does Melpy like this? I think I have vext her: Little did she know, I was ambidexter.

T. SHERIDAN.

To Mr THOMAS SHERIDAN.

Reverend and learned Sir,

I am teacher of English, for want of a better, to a poor charity-school, in the lower end of St Thomas's Street; but in my time I have been a Virgilian, though I am now forced to teach English, which I understood less than my own native language, or even than Latin itself; therefore I made bold to send you the inclosed, the fruit of my Muse, in hopes it may qualify me for the honour of being one of your most inferior Ushers: if you will vouchsafe to send me an answer, direct to me next door but one to the Harrow, on the left hand in Crocker's Lane.

I am your's,

Reverend Sir, to command,

PAT. REYLY.

Scribimus indocti doctique poemata passim.-Horat.*

AD te, doctissime Delany,
Pulsus à foribus Decani,
Confugiens edo querelam,
Pauper petens clientelam.
Petebam Swift doctum patronum,
Sed ille dedit nullum donum,
Neque cibum neque bonum.
Quæris quàm malè sit, stomacho num!
Iratus valdè valdè latrat,
Crumenicidam fermè patrat :
Quin ergo releves ægrotum,
Dato cibum, dato potum.
Ita in utrumvis oculum,

Dormiam bibens vestrum poculum.

Quæso, Reverende Vir, digneris hanc epistolam inclusam cum versiculis perlegere, quam cum fasti

* In this cover was inclosed Swift's verses to Sheridan, beginning Deliciæ Musarum, &c.

dio abjecit et respuebat Decanus ille (inquam) lepidissimus et Musarum et Apollinis comes.

Reverende Vir,

De vestrâ benignitate et clementiâ in frigore et fame exanimatos, nisi persuasum esset nobis, hanc epistolam reverentiæ vestræ non scripsissem; quam profectò, quoniam eo es ingenio, in optimam accipere partem nullus dubito. Sævit Boreas, mugiunt procellæ, dentibus invitis maxillæ bellum gerunt. Nec minus intestino depræliantibus tumultu visceribus, classicum sonat venter. Ea nostra est conditio, hæc nostra querela. Proh Deûm atque hominum fidem! quare illi, cui ne libella nummi est, dentes, stomachum, viscera concessit natura? mehercule nostro ludibrium debens corpori, frustra laboravit a patre voluntario exilio, qui macrum ligone macriorem reddit agellum. Huc usque evasi ad te, quasi ad asylum, confugiens, quem nisi bene nossem succurrere potuisse, mehercule neque fores vestras pultassem, neque limina tetigissem. Quàm longum iter famelicus peregi! nudus, egenus, esuriens, perhorrescens, despectus, mendicans; sunt lacrymæ rerum et mentem carnaria tangunt. In viâ nullum fuit solatium præterquam quod Horatium, ubi macros in igne turdos versat, perlegi. Catii dapes, Mæcenatis convivium, ita me picturâ pascens inani, sæpius volvebam. Quid non mortalium pectora cogit Musaruım sacra fames? Hæc omnia, quæ nostra fuit necessitas, curavi ut scires; nunc re experiar quid dabis, quid negabis. Vale.

Vivitur parvo malè, sed canebat
Flaccus ut parvo benè: quod negamus:
Pinguis et laute saturatus ille

Ridet inanes.

Pace sic dicam liceat poetæ
Nobilis læti salibus faceti

Usque jocundi, lepidè jocantis
Non sine curâ.

Quis potest versus, (meditans merendam Prandium, cœnam) numerare ? quis non Quot panes pistor locat in fenestrâ

Dicere mallet?

Ecce jejunus tibi venit unus ;
Latrat ingenti stomachus furore;
Quæso digneris renovare fauces,
Docte Patrone.

Vestiant lanæ tenues libellos,
Vestiant panni dominum trementem,

Ædibus vestris trepidante pennâ

Musa propinquat.

Nuda ne fiat, renovare vestes

Urget, et nunquam tibi sic molestam

Esse promittit, nisi sit coacta

Frigore iniquo.

Si modo possem? Vetat heu pudor me Plura, sed præstat rogitare plura,

An dabis binos digitos crumenæ im

ponere vestræ.

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