TO THE DEAN OF ST PATRICK'S. *

DEAR SIR, Since you in humble wise
Have made a recantation,
From your low bended knees arise;
I hate such poor prostration.

'Tis bravery that moves the brave,
As one nail drives another;
If you from me would mercy have,
Pray, Sir, be such another.

You that so long maintain'd the field
With true poetic vigour;

Now you lay down your pen and yield,
You make a wretched figure. †

Submit, but do't with sword in hand,
And write a panegyric

Upon the man you cannot stand;
I'll have it done in lyric:

That all the boys I teach may sing

The achievements of their Chiron; † What conquests my stern looks can bring, Without the help of iron.

A small goose-quill, yclep'd a pen,
From magazine of standish,

Drawn forth, 's more dreadful to the Dean,
Than any sword we brandish.

A fair

* Whimsical Medley, p. 359. open for you.

+ A leg awry.

my bolt;

My ink's my flash, my pen 's
Whene'er I please to thunder,
I'll make you tremble like a colt,
And thus I'll keep you under.

THOMAS SHERIDAN.

TO THE DEAN OF ST PATRICK'S. *

DEAR DEAN, I'm in a sad condition,

I cannot see to read or write;
Pity the darkness of thy Priscian,
Whose days are all transform'd to night.

My head, tho' light, 's a dungeon grown,
The windows of my soul are clos'd;
Therefore to sleep I lay me down,
My verse and I are both compos'd.

Sleep, did I say? that cannot be;

For who can sleep, that want's his eyes? My bed is useless then to me,

Therefore I lay me down to rise.

Unnumber'd thoughts pass to and fro
Upon the surface of my brain;
In various maze they come and go,
And come and go again.

So have you seen in sheet burnt black,
The fiery sparks at random run;

Now here, now there, some turning back,
Some ending where they just begun.

VOL. XV.

THOMAS SHEridan.

* Whimsical Medley, p. 359.

D

AN ANSWER, BY DELANY,

TO THOMAS SHERIDAN.

*

DEAR SHERRY, I'm sorry for your bloodsheded

sore eye,

And the more I consider your case, still the more I
Regret it, for see how the pain on't has wore ye.
Besides; the good Whigs, who strangely adore ye,
In pity cry out, "he's a poor blinded Tory."
But listen to me, and I'll soon lay before ye
A sovereign cure well attested in Gory.
First wash it with ros, that makes dative rori,
Then send for three leeches, and let them all gore ye;
Then take a cordial dram to restore ye,

Then take Lady Judith, and walk a fine boree,
Then take a glass of good claret ex more,
Then stay as long as you can, ab uxore;

And then if friend Dick † will but ope your backdoor, he

Will quickly dispel the black clouds that hang o'er

ye,

And make you so bright, that you'll sing tory rory,
And make a new ballad worth ten of John Dory:
(Tho' I work your cure, yet he'll get the glory.)
I'm now in the back school-house, high up one story,
Quite weary with teaching, and ready to mori.
My candle's just out too, no longer I'll pore ye,
But away to Clem Barry's, there's an end of my
story.

* Whimsical Medley, p. 53.

+ Dr Richard Helsham. See p. 53.

A REPLY, BY SHERIDAN, TO DELANY.*

I LIKE your collyrium,

Take my eyes, Sir, and clear ye 'um,

'Twill gain you a great reputation;

By this you may rise,

Like the Doctor so wise, t

Who open'd the eyes of the Nation.

And these I must tell ye,
Are bigger than its belly-

You know, there's in Livy a story
Of the hands and ther ee

Denying of meat,→

Don't I write in the dark like a Tory?

Your water so far goes,.

'Twould serve for an Argus,

Were all his whole hundred sore;

So many we read

He had in his head,

Or Ovid's a son of a whore.

For

your recipe, Sir,

My my lids never stir,

If ever I think once to fee you';

For I'd have you to know,

When abroad I can go,

That it's honour enough, if I see you.

* Whimsical Medley, p. 363. + Probably Dr Davenant.

ANOTHER REPLY BY SHERIDAN. *

My pedagogue dear, I read with surprise

Your long sorry rhymes, which you made on my eyes;

As the Dean of St Patrick's says, earth, seas, and skies!

I cannot lie down, but immediately rise,

To answer your stuff and the Doctor's likewise.
Like a horse with a gall, I'm pester'd with flies,
But his head and his tail new succour supplies,
To beat off the vermin from back, rump, and thighs.
The wing of a goose before me now lies,

Which is both shield and sword for such weak ene

mies.

Whoever opposes me, certainly dies,

Tho' he were as valiant as Condé or Guise.
The women disturb me a crying of pies,

With a voice twice as loud as a horse when he neighs.
By this, Sir, you find, should we rhyme for a prize,
That I'd gain cloth of gold when you'd scarce merit
frize.

TO THOMAS SHERIDAN. †

DEAR TOM, I'm surpris'd that your verse did not jingle;

But

your rhyme was not double, 'cause your sight was but single.

* Whimsical Medley, p. 363.

+ Ibid. p. 364.